


Somnus Ultima

by The_Asset6



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst and Fluff, Bromance, But sooooo much more than just the main sleeping beauty story, Canon-Typical Violence, Cor is tired of everyone's crap but is also a good pseudo-dad, Curses, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Magic, Minor Character Death, Noctis is such an adorable child it hurts, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Regis is a good dad, Relationship tags withheld to avoid spoilers, Secret Identity, Secrets, Sleeping Beauty AU, you heard that right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2018-11-28 18:05:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 349,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11423292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Asset6/pseuds/The_Asset6
Summary: King Regis and Queen Aulea’s desire for a child has finally been fulfilled, as well as their kingdom’s need for an heir to the throne. However, when a dark mage with a vendetta against Lucis blesses the young prince with a deadly curse, they realize that no sacrifice is too much when it comes to someone you love.But too much, it turns out, is never enough.Sleeping Beauty AU





	1. New Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> So, like the tags say, this isn't just going to be a rehashing of the standard "Sleeping Beauty" story. The main elements will be the same, but there is going to be a bunch of added background and lore. I hope you guys don't mind. ;) 
> 
> You'll notice I didn't mention a pairing in the tags. I did that on purpose so that I don't spoil what's going to happen. Tags will be updated as we go if and when it's necessary. 
> 
> Also, a bit of a lore note: the Lucian kings are NOT magical in this story. That means that the Crystal doesn't belong to them and the Ring of the Lucii is just a family heirloom. That also means that Regis looks the way he would have had he not aged tremendously from keeping up the Wall. :D
> 
> I really hope that you guys enjoy this and look forward to your feedback!

For years, King Regis Lucis Caelum and his queen had been praying to the Six that they would have a son who could one day ascend the throne. It seemed, at first, as though the deepest desire of their hearts would never be fulfilled. Each year passed in the same way as the last: childless.

Regis and Aulea were not willing to give up, though. They had been friends since childhood, and the lack of an heir did not drive a wedge between them. On the contrary, it instead made them all the more determined.

So, when the queen finally became pregnant after four long years, it was more than just cause for celebration. Word swept the kingdom of Lucis before they could contain it, not that they wanted to. As the royal family, it was their duty to protect and care for their people for as long as they still drew breath. That responsibility included ensuring that their line would continue to do so for many generations to come, so the conception of a child who would one day rule in Regis’s stead was news for all to rejoice.

The Crown City of Insomnia was bedecked with the most beautiful decorations during the months preceding the birth of the royal child. Every time the king and queen left the Citadel, they were showered in brightly colored confetti and driven through streets lined with streamers and flowers. If they didn’t know any better, they would have thought that they were in Accordo during the Moogle Chocobo Carnival, where such festivities were to be expected. It wasn’t often that Insomnia saw swathes of color fluttering on the breeze, not when the buildings were comprised mostly of white stone and metal and the seal of the royal family was black. It only heightened their subjects’ excitement.

How long had it been since they had felt so energized? In Regis’s memory, there had never been a time when the weightlessness of ecstasy had reigned more powerfully than any king or queen might. Then again, the war with the empire of Niflheim had overshadowed their lives for more than a century with no end in sight. The last thirty years had seen a dramatic shift in priorities from battlefield politics to economic warfare, but the fact remained that there was little to smile about when an enemy stood on your doorstep. To have been able to provide his people with a reason for lighthearted antics in the face of such an ominous prospect… The only thing that could have made Regis happier was the looming deadline of his wife’s delivery.

When the child was born, the entire kingdom held its breath. Would it be a girl or a boy? Would the baby be healthy like its parents or sickly like so many failed rulers of other nations? Myriad questions were left to be answered, but the king and queen paused to consider none of them. They were content to let the masses speculate all they liked: the child would be _theirs_ , no one else’s, and factors like gender hardly mattered. This was their _baby_ —not only the future of Lucis, but also the product of their love for one another. They would turn the world upside down if it meant their child was happy, healthy, and safe.

And he was.

The prince was born at the end of August, just before the dawn, and they named him Noctis for the night sky that had welcomed him into the world.

The moment Regis heard his son’s cries—his strong, healthy wailing—he ceased to be king. He wasn’t the ruler of his realm or the reigning monarch of the Lucis Caelum family. He was nothing more or less than a father.

After the long hours of labor, the agonized shrieks of his wife, and the heart wrenching knowledge that he was of absolutely _no use_ , it was mercifully over. The physicians and nurses swaddled Noctis in soft black blankets with little silver stars embroidered on them, then placed him carefully in Regis’s waiting arms. For a few interminable minutes that felt like an age of mankind, he could only stare in wonder. Noctis was so _tiny_ , so helpless; he couldn’t even hold his own eyes open much less return Regis’s adoring gaze. His survival, his very _existence_ , was reliant on the protection and kindness of others—of his _parents_. And yet, in the same breath, he recognized that this miniscule bundle of blankets and flesh would one day rule just as he did now. It seemed so impossible and, in a way, such a pity.

His peaceful child, with his innocent blue eyes and chubby baby face, was destined to suffer the weight of the crown whether he liked it or not. The thought wasn’t enough to dull Regis’s elation, but it did add a sense of sobriety to the occasion.

So foreign was the sensation of carrying his son— _his son_ —that the nurses needed to teach him as if _he_ were the child: how to support Noctis’s head, how not to jostle him too much, how to hold him upright after feedings. Everything was new to him, and even though he absorbed all he could, Regis was _terrified_.

After decades of war and making decisions that would impact millions of people, Regis Lucis Caelum was afraid. Of a baby.

No, that was untrue. He did not fear Noctis. His only concern was that he would not be a good father to the beautiful creature that slept calmly in his arms. He was frightened that the needs of his kingdom would have to come first, even and perhaps in spite of the fact that he wanted his son to remain his foremost priority.

In that instant, that fleeting speck of time, Regis made a solemn vow. He walked with Noctis to the chair beside his sleeping queen’s bed and cradled him against his chest in an effort to preserve that closeness that he would lose as soon as he relinquished his boy, whether to his wife’s arms or a cradle or the inevitable destiny of his heritage. Brushing jet black strands of hair away from Noctis’s forehead, he whispered a promise, one that he desperately hoped the Six would allow him to keep.

“I will be with you… _always_.”

 

***

 

Regis frowned as he pored over the map Clarus had laid down on the table before him. Despite his Shield’s best efforts, there was little that could be done in arranging their next course of action. Niflheim left them few choices, but they still had a decision to make about the imperial blockade. Their usual shipments of food to Accordo were due to be exported before the end of the week, and the latter was meant to deliver their biannual supply of textiles within the month. The empire’s insistence that Lucis comply with their demands or face economic ruin should have been a farce, yet Regis was discovering that they were growing increasingly reckless by the day. Either they had orchestrated some sort of plan that the Lucian council had yet to discern, or they were simply acting in the heat of the moment.

Knowing Iedolas Aldercapt the way Regis did, neither would have surprised him any more than the other.

“If the blockade isn’t lifted in the coming days,” Clarus summarized while Regis kept his eyes trained on the little black dots outlining the boundary of the embargo, “our trade bargain in the Altissian Accords will be voided, as will their responsibility to us. That must be what Aldercapt is intending with this foolishness.”

With a nod of agreement, Regis attempted to placate him, “Our friends in Accordo will be understanding should our shipments fall behind. They are well aware of our difficulties.”

“For how _long_ is the question, Your Majesty.”

“We shouldn’t concern ourselves with Accordo just yet,” reiterated Regis, sighing wearily.

They _always_ came back to this same argument, and as much as he respected Clarus for his sworn Shield’s wisdom and astuteness, there was no denying that he tended to worry more than was strictly necessary—not that _he_ would ever acknowledge that.

“If we do not consider the possibility of their secession from the treaty and the lifting of sanctions against Niflheim, we may very well find ourselves in a precarious position later,” Clarus pointed out in a tone that clearly indicated he was reading Regis’s thoughts. Perhaps their long friendship might occasionally work against the king, after all.

“There is no reason to believe that a negation of our bargain with Accordo, however unlikely, would send them falling into the arms of the empire, Clarus.”

“Should they require the goods that they will no longer be receiving from us, their desperation may cause them to take drastic action.”

“Assuming,” he reminded his Shield, narrowly resisting the urge to roll his eyes in search of a more noble reaction, “that our agreements are indeed nullified at all.”

“A course that we can neither take for granted nor rule out entirely,” rejoined Clarus immediately. At times like this, it was almost unbearable how unwilling he was to cede ground even to his monarch. Appealing to him in such a state was always an exercise in futility.

So, Regis merely raised an eyebrow before inquiring of their other, less narrow-minded companion, “And what is your opinion? Do you believe the Altissian Accords to be so fragile, as well?”

There was a moment of silence before Noctis sneezed.

“As I suspected,” cooed Regis, poking his son’s nose with an indulgent grin. “Neither do I.”

He didn’t _miss_ the way Clarus rolled his eyes and scoffed. Being king meant he could simply _ignore_ it in favor of prodding his finger into Noctis’s palm and watching that tiny fist close around it in a surprisingly tight grip for one so small.

“Regis, if you do not take this threat seriously—“

“I take it _quite_ seriously, Clarus,” interjected the king. He kept his tone light so as not to upset Noctis and bounced the latter up and down gently in his arms. “And I do not _seriously_ believe that Accordo will abandon us. They have never proven to be any less than our friend and ally, even without the guarantees outlined in the Accords. For as much as we must remain cautious of the enemy and vigilant with regards to their movements, it is imperative that we do not begin to suspect our friends lest they grow reluctant to remain by our side.”

There wasn’t enough time for his Shield to form a valid rebuttal, and the king was pleased to have gotten the last word in their debate. His relief was short-lived, however. As fortunate as it seemed that they were interrupted at that moment, particularly since Clarus appeared to be losing his patience at last, a glance at the door told Regis that he was not to be so lucky after all.

King or commoner, there was one facet of married life that proved to be rigid and unchanging: the power dynamics between a husband and a wife. Whatever sway or influence the former thought they had, it was truly the latter whose word was law. Regis needed to craft bills and sign decrees to rule over his country—his wife could legislate with a glare or a smile. That, apparently, would be his downfall today: Aulea was standing framed in the doorway of the council chambers, her hands on her hips and looking uncannily similar to old images of the gods when they were in a towering temper.

This time, it was _much_ more difficult to overlook Clarus’s smug grin.

“Regis,” Aulea began, her tone deceptively sweet, “what have I told you about involving our son in affairs of state?”

_Ah._

That had indeed come up on quite a few occasions in the last week—often enough that there was no pretending he didn’t know what she was talking about.

“He will make quite the statesman one day, my love,” evaded Regis as he placed a series of playful kisses on Noctis’s temple. He was granted a sleepy cough he would classify as a laugh in reward of his efforts.

The look he was subjected to for his flippancy clearly indicated that his status as king was not enough to exempt him from sleeping on the sofa in their chambers, however. Indeed, he was nothing more than a man when considered within the confines of his marriage. 

“Thank you, Clarus,” Aulea pointedly directed at his Shield, who immediately bowed and vacated the room. Like Regis, he knew better than to oppose the queen when she was adamant. Once the door closed behind him, though, her expression shifted to one of weary resignation as she relocated to a seat at the table. “He is a month old, Regis. I would prefer that he learned how to walk before you engage him in political matters.”

Regis inclined his head and offered her a remorseful smile despite his prior joking. “Apologies, dearest. Unfortunately, to see him is to do both.”

Humming, Aulea nodded. It was difficult for either of them to spend time with Noctis while simultaneously fulfilling their roles as the leaders of Lucis. Admittedly, it was easier for Aulea than Regis, however, and he frequently felt envious of the quiet moments she shared with their son when he was expected at one meeting or another. For him, hardly any business in the Citadel could be conducted without his presence, or so it seemed. The council constantly wished to have words with him, and given their perilous position regarding their rapidly deteriorating relations with Niflheim, he found himself spending more of his evenings examining documents and formulating plans with his chief strategists. If he did not bring Noctis along with him to some of these gatherings, he doubted very much whether he would be able to see him at all some days. He knew what reputation he would garner as a king for such devotion, but his fears of what kind of _father_ that made him had grown increasingly present in his mind.

“You’re thinking too much.”

Aulea’s voice dragged him from his thoughts, and Regis smiled wanly at the concerned yet sympathetic gaze she leveled at him.

“My father once told me that thinking too much came with the throne,” he mused. Glancing down at Noctis, Regis idly tucked his blankets tighter around him. “My thoughts seem inescapable no matter how hard I try.”

“And what do they tell you?”

Regis paused. He had never hidden anything from his queen, not in all the years they had known one another and especially not since they were married. Dishonesty felt unnatural in her presence; her judgment had always been what he sought in his darkest hours.

“That I will be a terrible father,” he whispered after only the briefest hesitation. His heart already beat faster with the embarrassment of his confession.

It was no use avoiding Aulea’s gaze when her soft hand closed over his where it rested on Noctis’s chest. He could find no scorn in her eyes, nor had he expected there to be—she was an uncommonly compassionate person, perhaps the kindest he had ever known. As he stared into her soul and let her see into his, the weight that had been pressing against his shoulders for the last month began to ease somewhat.

“You will _never_ be a terrible father,” she assured him, her tone conveying all the conviction of an avenging angel. There was no time to contradict her before she pressed on, “Your world revolves around Noctis.”

“For how long?”

Frowning, she inquired with an exasperated sigh, “What do you mean?”

“I am _king_ , Aulea,” Regis shot back with sudden and admittedly unwarranted impatience. He immediately regretted it when Noctis squirmed restlessly in his arms, whining quietly, and paused to rock him back into a calm half-slumber. When he continued, it was in a whisper. “There may come a time when I have to choose between what is best for my kingdom and what is best for my son. We both know what I am honor bound to decide.”

“Why are the two mutually exclusive?”

“You know why.”

Aulea had no answer for that. Neither of them could easily utter the words: if the kingdom required their lives, they must submit. That meant any number of things—their time, their attention, their presence, even their deaths. Little care could be afforded to thoughts of what the implications would be, especially the idea of leaving their son an orphan who knew next to nothing of his parents. Perhaps Aulea would be spared as a queen not born into the Lucis Caelum family, but Regis would never be free. He was doomed to remain forever tethered to his throne, one foot stepping forward to serve while the other was shackled to the black marble floor. When Regis had discovered that his wife was pregnant, a new image had been painted upon the inside of his eyelids, and the throne room that once represented nothing more than his destiny seemed now to be a sepulcher. It was where he lived, and he doubted that he would have the pleasure of dying anywhere else.

To have a son destined for the same fate was unnerving. To realize that he might not get to _know_ that son as a result of his own duties was _agonizing_.

They both were aware of the risks and always had been. It was impossible not to be, yet they had conceived Noctis regardless.

Such was the duty of a monarch.

As if in response to his uneasy thoughts, a little foot pushed against the inside of his arm, making him smile wetly. Noctis’s brilliant blue eyes were open, and they stared up at him as though he was the only person on the planet. It warmed Regis’s very soul, shining a light on all his inner demons to quell their hold on him, and he stroked his thumb lightly over Noctis’s forehead. In that one shining moment, his fears seemed diminished and all felt right in the universe.

Then Noctis began to fuss.

“You see?” Regis chuckled with a sad sort of resignation. “I’m already doing this wrong.”

“He’s hungry, and you’re doing the best you can,” Aulea’s soft voice assured him, tainted by no small measure of amusement.

Oh. Of course. The physicians had been quite clear on what to expect in the first few months: a lot of sleep and frequent feedings. Suddenly, his misgivings came rushing back and Regis felt quite incompetent indeed. He was the king—he had developed economic plans, traveled the length and width of his kingdom, sent men out to die—but couldn’t even tell the difference between when his son was hungry or tired or merely unhappy…

“Stop.”

A gentle kiss was pressed against his forehead in stark contrast to the way the warmth evaporated as Noctis was removed from his arms. Regis knew it was necessary even as his son’s soft whining and whimpering grew in volume, but that didn’t keep his own heart from mourning the loss.

“No one said this would be easy,” she murmured once Noctis was settled and nursing. It had been her decision not to use a wet nurse, preferring to nurture that bond with their son herself, and Regis found that he admired her all the more for it. How could it be possible to love someone more each day without end?

“I’m quite sure we were told the opposite, actually,” agreed Regis, slumping back in his seat in perhaps the least dignified manner possible.

With a slow, thoughtful nod, Aulea mused, “You know…”

Regis raised a curious eyebrow when she trailed off. It wasn’t her habit to be nervous just as it wasn’t his to hide things from her, and she wasn’t. There was no apprehension in her expression, only a wary excitement. He hadn’t seen that look on her face since their wedding night. It went without saying that he wasn’t certain whether he should be enthused or concerned.

“Go on,” he gently prompted when she continued to survey him without speaking. Her smile widened in response.

“Noctis is to be christened next week,” observed Aulea in that same pensive tone.

Regis merely nodded. That was hardly news to him; after all, he had been feeling guilty for his lack of involvement in the preparations just that morning. There were some things that he had been consulted about, like flower arrangements and guests, but the vast majority was done without him. Aulea had seen to nearly everything with the help of her attendants, and he had no doubt the affair would be a beautiful one. He couldn’t deny that not holding much of a role in the process rankled, yet he refused to let his own insecurities ruin what would surely be a perfect day all the same.

“Perhaps we are due for some time away from the Citadel afterwards.” Seeing his immediate discomfort with the idea, she hastened to explain, “A few days in Galdin or a journey to Accordo might be beneficial to us all.”

“Aulea…”

She was apparently not going to tolerate any interruptions and continued over him, “You have worked day and night recently. I hardly see you, and Noctis cannot attend all of your briefings.”

Regis had no argument against that, but he still had to ruefully remind her, “We are at war, my love.”

_Would that it were not so._

“We have always been at war,” she scoffed, though not without some sympathy. It was impossible not to comprehend the stakes of their conflict with the empire. Regardless, she persisted, “The war will be here when we return. It may very well remain that way forever. Your son’s youth, not so.”

As if to emphasize her point, Aulea spread a small cloth over his shoulder and settled a much calmer Noctis against his chest so that Regis could lightly pat his back. It shouldn’t have been so comforting to hear his son’s post-feeding gurgles and hiccoughs beside his ear, yet it was all the same.

That, apparently, would be his undoing.

“Very well,” he capitulated, nuzzling Noctis’s cheek and basking in the glow of that tiny smile. “We can revisit the idea after his christening.”

It honestly wasn’t fair that his queen’s grin was so infectious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last quote in the first part is from the "Dawn" trailer. You can probably expect a few gems from the game.


	2. The Christening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for minor character death. Details are in the end notes to avoid spoilers.

They couldn’t have asked for a finer day to celebrate their son’s future. Despite nearly a week of incessant rain prior to the event, the morning of the christening dawned with abundant sunlight and pleasantly warm weather. It was truly glorious the way the sun filtered in through the windows of the throne room and sparkled upon the crystal-studded decorations. Little rainbows danced along the walls and reflected off the black marble floor, creating a whimsical display of light and wonderment.

And at the center of it all was Noctis, in a bassinet on the dais before the throne that would one day be his.

The ceremony itself was never meant to be a large affair. Under different circumstances, they would have filled the entire city with such pomp and merriment that their subjects would remember it for years to come. Flowers of blue to match Noctis’s eyes would have been draped from every lamppost and street sign; black and silver confetti would have rained from the tops of the buildings and covered everything in a layer of sparkling fairy dust. Everyone in the kingdom would have been invited to witness the momentous occasion of Noctis’s official entry into Lucian life.

Circumstances weren’t different, however. They were at war with an enemy that grew increasingly unpredictable and careless as the years passed, and neither Regis nor Aulea was willing to take any risks with Noctis’s safety simply for the sake of grandstanding.

So, the result was a relatively small gathering of their closest friends from around Eos and a few reporters who would record and distribute the event to the general public after the fact. The entire assemblage fit within the walls of the throne room, settled in black chairs on either side of a silver carpet that ran the length of the chamber. The symbolic blue flowers were confined to the ends of each row, a gift from the House Fleuret of Tenebrae; they had dispensed with the confetti and instead draped the ornate ceiling in tapestries embroidered with silver and gold stars that seemed to glisten with a magic all their own.

It was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing Regis had ever seen in his life.

The decorations weren’t even the most splendorous part, as he found himself commenting quietly to Aulea where she sat beside his throne. They were exquisite, to be sure, but there was nothing quite as heartwarming as looking around the room to see so many friends and allies gathered together to celebrate the most important person in your world.

There was Clarus Amicitia, Shield and constant companion, standing at his other side. Accompanying him was his son, Gladiolus, who would one day inherit the position from his father and become to Noctis what Clarus had always been to Regis. It was difficult to imagine given that the boy was only three years old, but there was a fire behind his eyes that Regis had only ever seen in members of the Amicitia family. He had no doubt that Gladiolus would make as fine a Shield as his father and grandfather before him when the time came for him to don the mantle.

Members of the privy council filled the galleries on either side of the room, and both staircases descending from the throne were lined with attendants and honorable servants of the Crown. Amongst them were some of Regis’s most important advisors, devoted guards, and promising future generations of the Lucian government.

Cor, the young yet capable Marshal of the Crownsguard, stood at attention with his eyes deceptively trained on Noctis as though simply observing the proceedings. Regis knew better: despite his youth, Cor was voracious in his desire to serve, and his gaze was sharply scrutinizing everything and everyone in the room for threats. His muscles were undoubtedly tensed beneath his clothing so that, should some unlikely devastation befall them, he could reach the infant prince with all speed. As exasperating as his constant attention and borderline paranoia could be, Regis was undeniably grateful nonetheless.

Beyond him were the Scientias with their two-year-old nephew, Ignis. So phenomenal had their service as his attendants been over the years that Regis made them a promise: Ignis, who had come to live with them at the Citadel after the tragically untimely deaths of his parents, would be trained and educated by the most knowledgeable instructors in all of Lucis for the sole purpose of acting as Noctis’s future confidant, chamberlain, and advisor. It was but a small repayment for all that the Scientias had done for the kingdom and its monarchs, yet they had been immeasurably grateful all the same. Truly, the honor was Regis’s, for Ignis was already such a remarkably gifted child that his loyalty to Noctis would be invaluable in the years ahead.

Weskham Armaugh was there, having accompanied First Secretary Camelia Claustra all the way from Accordo. (Their shipments had indeed been late, but the relationship between the two nations had suffered no setbacks. Clarus only grudgingly admitted that Regis’s assumptions were correct.) He had brought with him such beautiful gifts—little gondolas with stuffed bear gondoliers, tiny golden models of the boats that were permanent fixtures in Altissia’s harbor, and preciously innocent adaptations of the beasts pitted against one another at the infamous Totomostro. There had been so many toys and ornaments that Regis jokingly accused Weskham of attempting to steal his son’s affections away from him.

“Of course not, my friend,” his old companion had laughed, the mischievous gleam in his eyes underlying the reassurance in his tone. “I suppose you’ll simply have to buy him _more_ things, though, just to be safe.”

As if the nursery and Noctis’s chambers weren’t already overflowing with toys he wouldn’t be old enough to play with for many months yet. Perhaps Regis and Aulea had gone a touch overboard with regards to spoiling their son.

…What a ridiculous notion.

There was only one slightly sobering detail that Regis was attempting to overlook with some difficulty. At a time when all their various friends and relations should have been present, one face was glaringly absent. He couldn’t feign surprise, though. How long had it been since they had seen each other? Well over a decade, he imagined. Far too long for Regis to expect his presence even on a day of such importance, much as he would have hoped for the opposite.

There was no reason to dwell on his disappointment, however. Not when his queen’s hand was in his, their son was healthy and whole, and so many smiling faces had arrived to pay their respects. There was enough love in the room to help him forget those who were missing, even if his heart insisted on mourning what could have been.

Regis doubted that the most staid, heartless creature on the planet could withstand the warmth that connected them all as they watched the ceremony proceed. It was customary for the royal family of Lucis to invite the Oracle to christen each new child, whether destined for the throne or not, and this occasion was no exception. Sylva Nox Fleuret was dazzling in her pristine white dress; the sunlight glittered off the sequins of her skirt, lending her an ethereal aura worthy of her station.

It wasn’t often that Regis or Aulea were comfortable enough to let anyone besides themselves and a veritable fleet of nurses lay their hands on Noctis, but they felt no anxiety in watching Sylva rest hers upon their son’s forehead and utter the prayer that had baptized generations of Lucian kings before him. She was both a trusted friend and honored guest, one who had been granted powers given to increasingly few by the gods themselves. If Noctis would be safe in anyone’s care, it was hers.

So they observed with rapt attention the way Noctis fussed quietly only to calm a moment later at her touch. All their guests were silent, listening and smiling until the Oracle declared that the ritual was complete and stepped aside. With that, the somber atmosphere seemed to shatter, and applause echoed loudly off the walls.

“To His Highness!” whooped a few of the less restrained members of the assemblage, and when Regis glanced over to Aulea, he found suspiciously wet eyes staring back at him.

Once the clamor subsided and he thought that the ceremony was now drawing to a close, two other figures emerged from the crowd to join the Oracle before the throne. An awed hush swept through the chamber, and Regis moved to sit on the edge of his seat, for even he had not known that they were playing host to such magnificent visitors today.

Magic was not something that existed in great quantities. Unlike the legends of old, those who could wield the power of the Astrals were few and scattered. It was said that there was once a great war the likes of which their present conflicts could never compete with. In that divine struggle, the gods had granted to humans the ability to use magic so that the latter might offer their assistance. The result had been catastrophic, nothing but blood and turmoil and grief. After that, the Astrals had decided that magic was not something to be trifled with and that most humans did not exhibit the strength of heart or will to possess it. The number of mages had dwindled almost to nothing; only four now lived, to Regis’s knowledge.

Three chose to grace them with their presence today: the Oracle and two others, neither of whom he had ever come into contact with. Many had thought that they were nothing more than lingering myths from the old tales, yet here they stood, their heads bowed low in deference to him and his family.

“Your Majesty,” Sylva began, her voice projecting so that it could be heard throughout the chamber despite its quiet volume. “It has been my honor to welcome Prince Noctis into the world. That, however, was not the only reason for my coming.”

Before Regis could inquire as to her meaning, the raven-haired woman beside her lifted her head and opened her eyes for the first time since she appeared in the crowd. A deep green gaze surveyed him kindly as Gentiana explained, “O king of Lucis, we would offer to the young prince the blessings and gifts of the Astrals this day.”

Excited whispers exploded throughout the room, and it took Regis a few dazed moments to bring the gathering to order again. When he turned back to the mages before him, he thought he might have lost the ability to speak. What had they done to warrant such an honor? To ask would be inappropriate, yet his curiosity waged a war with his gratitude all the same. It was only Aulea’s hand squeezing his that provided him with the strength to respond.

“You are too kind to us,” he announced with a small bow of his own. “On behalf of our son, we accept your gracious offer. Thank you.”

Another minute was required while scattered applause was interspersed with fervent exclamations. As every voice quieted and the clapping ceased, the three stepped forward to the bassinet—the Oracle, the Messenger, and the Dream Guardian together.

Regis had never understood why the gods gave magic to a small white fox of all creatures, but he wouldn’t question it when they were bestowing upon his son unprecedented honors. It would be a rather crass question, all things considered.

Sylva was the first to speak, smiling as she allowed Noctis to grip her finger tightly. “Dear Noctis, to you I give the strength of heart to overcome all obstacles along your path. In the deepest darkness or the brightest light, your courage will guide you and all things will be made clear.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the light or just Regis’s perception, but it appeared for a moment as though Noctis was _glowing_ where his hand connected with that of the Oracle. The illusion passed in half an instant, long before Regis was able to confirm anything, and then Sylva was stepping back to make way for Gentiana.

Of the three, she was the most intimidating. While Sylva exuded light and Carbuncle gentleness, Gentiana was a very different creature. Her mere presence seemed to fill the room on its own, and there was a power contained within her very steps that may well have had the ability to raze kingdoms to the ground of its own accord. It crackled around her like the air before a storm, lingering in her wake as a comforting sort of threat.

Every ounce of self-control was almost inadequate to keep Regis in his seat as Gentiana stepped up to the bassinet and placed one hand gently over Noctis’s forehead. He harbored no fear whatsoever that she meant his son any harm, but experiencing her vast supernatural power in such close proximity to Noctis nevertheless set him on edge. When he exchanged a quick glance with Aulea, he was relieved to discover that he wasn’t the only one.

If Gentiana registered their unease, she kindly didn’t mention it. Instead she kept her focus solely on Noctis, and a small smile graced her lips as she watched the baby fuss at her sudden appearance. Her words were spoken softly, as if meant only for the prince’s ears, and Regis leaned forward to hear better.

“To you, prince of Lucis, I grant the gift of wisdom. To overcome the shadows of the world may be a matter of the heart, but to see through them to their origin is one of the mind. All answers lie within. With this gift, I give to you the map of all things.”

As with the previous blessing, there was a brief illumination as the rite was passed from Messenger to babe, and Regis felt he could relax once more as Gentiana retreated to rejoin her fellow mages. The rest of the assemblage was looking upon her with vastly different gazes than before. Where their caution had been nearly tangible prior to her words, they now exuded only comfort and appreciation for that which Gentiana had so generously conferred.

Regis was rendered speechless, and they had not even reached the end of the proceedings yet. It was impossible to determine at this stage whether the gifts of the Astrals would have any sizable impact; for all they knew, these were traits that Noctis may already have embodied as he grew older without the need for intervention. Still, if there was one thing that Regis was learning quickly by simply having a son for whom he cared so deeply, it was that they could never take too many precautions. How frequently they were reminded that they could not protect Noctis from the world when reports of fallen soldiers and suffering citizens reached their ears. Much as Regis would have liked to insulate his son from all of it so that he might have a chance at a happy, normal upbringing, it was a goal so optimistic that it was beyond reason. Come what may, these gifts would be of great use to Noctis in the decades to come.

“Lady Sylva, Lady Gentiana,” Aulea announced, her tears quite prominent although she refused to let them fall, “my husband and I thank you for your kind gifts. It is truly a blessing and an honor.”

The crowd applauded in polite agreement, and the Oracle and Messenger both inclined their heads to simultaneously accept the declaration of gratitude. For Regis, it brought an entirely new meaning to the term _grace of the gods_. Referring to these remarkable individuals with such a phrase didn’t seem to do their actions justice, and he could only imagine that their final gift would make him feel even more indebted to them.

Just as Carbuncle trotted forward to offer his own contribution, however, everything changed.

It was as though the air had suddenly gone cold, yet the temperature remained the same. Regis’s skin prickled and the hair on his arms and neck stood on end; outside, the clear sky grew suddenly overcast with a coming storm that no one had predicted on this most joyous day.

For a second, he thought perhaps it was his imagination. His mind’s eye must have played a trick on him, the stress of having worried so much about his son and this ceremony forcing it to picture misfortune that didn’t exist. His doubts were erased a moment later, however, when he noticed the restless shifting of the crowd as they, too, began to experience the same unease. Even the Dream Guardian froze in place, his red-horned head turning this way and that in search of something none of them could see.

Until they _could_.

“How very _touching_ ,” a familiar voice called over the silence that had descended upon the crowd. Someone was clapping—a sarcastic, menacing sound.

Regis was on his feet in an instant, his eyes immediately falling on the figure that strode down the center aisle with a sense of entitlement, of _ownership_. The same image had been presented to him on numerous occasions in the past, and in a single heartbeat, he was transported back a decade to the last time he had seen this man.

This _monster_.

“What are _you_ doing here?” hissed Regis, the animosity—the _fear_ —in his words echoing off the walls. Their new arrival paused in his approach and placed a hand against his chest in mock offense.

“My dear King Regis,” he simpered in that same oily tone he always used to manipulate those whose minds had no defense against him, “I’ll have you know that I traveled all the way from Niflheim to be here for this most auspicious event.”

At the name of their enemy, the assemblage broke into quiet chattering. Regis didn’t need to understand their murmuring to know what they were saying: _the king invited an imperial to his son’s christening!?_

Said imperial was not through, however. Never through.

As if realizing that he had foregone a few manners and formalities—not least of which his unseen entrance—the man chuckled lightly and turned to gaze upon the many guests watching through warily narrowed eyes. “Oh, do forgive me. I would have thought my presence would be familiar to you, but permit me to stand on ceremony and introduce myself nonetheless. Ardyn Izunia,” he announced with a low bow, “Imperial Mage of Niflheim, at your humble service.”

 _Panic_ would have been an apt term for the reaction of the crowd as they backed away from Ardyn with shocked and frightened expressions. Upon the steps leading to the throne, members of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive were unsheathing their weapons; Cor was already halfway to Noctis’s bassinet, his face set in the tight lines of duty. Had Aulea not chosen that moment to grab Regis’s hand in a viselike grip, he would have done the same. There was no comfort to be found in her touch, however, not when their son was closer to this traitorous fiend than himself.

If he was at all insulted by the cold reception, Ardyn gave no indication. His expression was as calm and unaffected as ever when he turned back towards Regis and commenced strolling forward. One would have thought he was wandering aimlessly through a field of sylleblossoms rather than an enemy stronghold.

“Indeed, I confess that I was rather disappointed when my invitation was not delivered. It is quite fortunate that I am so keenly aware of the goings on throughout Eos, otherwise I might not have arrived in time for the celebrations.”

“You were _not_ invited,” Regis barked. Distantly, he recognized that he spoke not with the regal authority of a monarch, but the panicked bluster of a man whose family was in grave danger. There was little he could do or cared to do about that, though; his citizens would have to forgive him his all too human failings.

Ardyn, of course, was well aware of each and every one.

“Not invited?” he inquired quietly, shaking his head as though upset by the actions of a small child. “Well, how very awkward. I would have thought that all my long years of loyal service to the Crown of Lucis would have warranted this one small consideration.” At the scattered gasps that broke out behind him, Ardyn’s grin turned sharp as a behemoth’s as he tutted, “So the great King Regis has not told his people of his cruelty?”

In that moment, Regis could have flown down the steps and impaled the mage where he stood. Sadly, he knew all too well that such a thing would only be of amusement to Ardyn rather than inflicting any lasting damage. Such was the way of things with this daemon standing before him—before his _son_.

Ardyn’s eyes had not yet sought out Noctis, but Regis harbored no illusions that their fortunes would endure for long in the face of this newly arrived devilry. Sylva, Gentiana, and Carbuncle stood before the little prince as if they, too, were armed and prepared for battle like the many guards whose eyes followed the intruder intently. Regis was grateful for their devotion to his child but dubious that even they could keep Ardyn at bay should he choose to attack.

It appeared, however, that his blows would continue to fall in the form of words for now.

“Unquestioned by your people. A fine monarch, indeed,” Ardyn mused, swaying back and forth a few times before whirling on his heel to face the crowd once more. There was a collective shudder at the motion. “Allow me to regale you with a tale. In an age not long past, the Astrals gifted those worthy of their special talents the ability to utilize them in their stead. Four such individuals were offered the _privilege_. One—“ he nodded towards the Oracle, “—became the lovely queen of Tenebrae, a healer of the people who ruled with a kind heart and weak fist.”

He didn’t pause for Sylva to exhibit any indignation. Next, he gestured in Gentiana’s direction. “Another was a wanderer, forever drifting across the lands to deliver the messages and blessings of the gods where they were needed most. And, of course…” Ardyn trailed off, chuckling deeply as his eyes fell on Carbuncle. “The Six crave a diverse audience.”

The tiny white fox bristled, its fur standing nearly straight; he reared back on his hind legs, prepared to pounce. Ardyn paid him no mind, however, and continued on in that same hypnotic voice that held them all captive.

“The fourth was a benevolent soul, one who offered his services to the great leaders of nations rather than ruling himself. For you see, he was perhaps the most powerful of all the chosen mages. In Lucis lived a monarch who had need of such strength, and thus a seemingly impenetrable partnership was forged.”

With a painstaking lack of haste, Ardyn pivoted to meet Regis’s gaze directly. “But the jealous king grew fearful of the very power he had sought to wield. He ostracized and demonized his generous servant, until finally he banished the mage from his kingdom, forcing him to seek other employment elsewhere.”

To the outside observer, it would appear that he was simply recounting events with a deliberate, neutral air—but they had never met Ardyn Izunia. Regis knew better and heard the malice carefully concealed beneath his tone just as he had the day Ardyn left the Citadel, his threats the only lingering evidence of his presence.

Even as the gathered dignitaries whispered amongst themselves, theirs gazes varying in measures of disbelief and caution and confusion, Ardyn’s solemn façade fell away. He raised his arms as though seeking an embrace and smiled like a villain.

“But that was long ago, was it not, my liege? Can we not place such dreadful past insults behind us and step forward together into a new age of friendship?”

 _He seeks_ friendship _after all he has done?_

Aulea’s murmur of warning was not enough to stop Regis from incredulously demanding, “Friendship? You dare to speak of such things after the crimes you committed not only in my service, but in my _name_.”

“Mistakes were made by all,” Ardyn brushed the accusations off, his smile never once wavering. “I am sure you can appreciate the difficult trials of youth. After all, we _are_ here to celebrate the future that awaits your beautiful son.”

And there it was: he had finally come to it. It mattered little that his so-called _youth_ was a farce, that he had been alive longer than Regis and his own father before him. As always, it was nothing more than another excuse.

Regis’s muscles twitched as he watched Ardyn take a few steps closer to the bassinet, heedless of Cor’s warning to keep his distance. He stopped with one foot on the steps leading up to the dais, blocked by three mages and half the Crownsguard, to smile innocently up at Regis.

“If there is one thing that has grown more apparent in my exile, it is that the petty bickering of men is but a distraction from a greater calling.”

“And what calling might you be referring to?” Clarus demanded, dagger in hand and already moving forward. It was with a sudden pang of regret that Regis remembered he had foregone his greatsword today in light of the proceedings.

Ardyn raised an eyebrow and declared as though it were obvious, “To enact the will of the gods, of course.”

This time, Regis held his tongue. If the Astrals’ decrees meant anything, Ardyn would have perished long ago; his taint would have been removed from the face of the earth, never to be seen or remembered by those who were left behind again. If the gods were truly the kind, benevolent creatures that his statement would seem to indicate, then Ardyn would not exist. While Regis was loath to believe that the Six had indeed abandoned Eos in its time of need, he could not deny their negligence. Not after what he had seen.

Clarus was obviously of a similar mind, having witnessed the same horrors, and he held his weapon with white-knuckled force as he fought to refrain from attacking without his king’s order. The rest of the guards and Glaives were equally immobile, awaiting the word to strike or stand down. Neither would come, not just yet. To do so would be to sign their death warrants, for they knew not the formidable enemy standing before them.

The tension and distrust was thick in the air, congealing around them all as though it could freeze the clock and keep them imprisoned in this moment for all eternity, until time itself stood still. Aulea’s voice was not what he would have expected to break the spell.

“You claim that you are here to do the gods’ work?” she carefully inquired, her voice betraying none of the contempt that Regis knew his would. But of course, they had not been married until well after Ardyn was sent forth from Lucis. She had no idea the dreadful power he commanded besides the few stories Regis had told her in the dark hours of the night when his dreams forced him to remember that which he would rather forget.

“I do, Your Majesty.” Ardyn lowered himself to one knee, a hand over his black heart and his head bowed as though in prayer.

Aulea—brave, sweet Aulea—clearly did not believe it for a second. Her tone remained even, though, when she asked, “What do the gods desire?”

At her prompting, Ardyn raised his gaze from the floor. Only the years of experience he had with the mage kept Regis from believing that the harmless, heartfelt expression he wore was genuine. On the contrary, it set all his nerves alight with a silent warning and the desperate desire to leap forward into the inevitable line of fire.

Ardyn’s kind mask was firmly in place when he answered sweetly, “Our wishes are one and the same in this instance. Despite the pain of our parting, Lucis has ever been on my mind and in my heart.” He stood suddenly, with a suspicious energy. “And so, as an offering fit for a future king and to show that I bear no ill will for the injustices of the past, I, too, shall bestow a gift upon _dear_ Noctis.”

“Seize him!”

The order had left Regis’s mouth almost without conscious thought, and his guards and Glaives sprang forward without question.

Ardyn was prepared.

A familiar violet glow surrounded him, the atmosphere turning a dull shade of grey by contrast. Before any of the guards could fall back, a dozen shimmering translucent weapons sliced through the air and their throats with utmost ease. Bodies fell to the ground as their blood slicked the floor; screams echoed throughout the throne room, and guests fled towards the door—which had been shut and bolted somehow as soon as Ardyn had appeared inside the chamber. A handful of dignitaries unsheathed the weapons at their sides, darting forward to nobly protect the prince of a nation that wasn’t even their own with the same passion that sent Regis diving down towards the dais.

Pain erupted in his chest almost immediately. For an immeasurable moment, all he could feel was agony and the hard floor beneath him; all he could hear was Aulea’s voice crying his name. It was her fright that forced his eyes open.

Oh, how he wished they had remained closed.

Ardyn had erected a crystalline shield around himself, Noctis, and the Oracle. Carbuncle was still inside and hopped up into Noctis’s bassinet, curling protectively over Regis’s son to guard him with what small amount of strength he could. In the chaos of Ardyn’s attack, Gentiana had been swept aside as Cor attempted to put himself between mage and prince to no avail, leaving only the Oracle to stand in his way.

Beyond the barrier, all seemed silent. Sylva’s mouth moved, but her voice penetrated the shield as effectively as Cor’s blade when the latter attempted without success to physically chip away at Ardyn’s magic. Regis wanted to tell him to stop, that he would only blunt his weapon in the process, but his throat was too tight for speech as he recognized the expression on Ardyn’s face. That grin—that devious, devilish grin…

The last time he’d seen it, the mage had been promising his revenge while he was dragged out of the throne room by nearly every guard in the Citadel.

Which was why he wasn’t surprised when the Oracle, her arms spread wide to guard Noctis where he lay helplessly behind her, was suddenly impaled by a greatsword that put Clarus’s to shame.

“ _Mother_!”

One scream rose above the rest, and Regis numbly looked out upon the crowd to see Sylva’s son struggling against the arms that held him back. His eyes were fixed on his mother’s body as it collapsed to the floor, blood seeping into her dress and staining it red. Ardyn’s heavy boots stepped over her limp form as though she were nothing more than an inconvenient puddle.

Aulea reached Regis’s side as the mage approached their son’s bassinet, just in time to watch Ardyn stare at his counterpart with a disdainful smirk. A moment later, Carbuncle flew through the air, struck the inside of the barrier, and fell to the floor. He didn’t get up.

For the rest of his life, as short or long as it was doomed to be, Regis would never forget the triumphant sneer on Ardyn’s face as he lifted Noctis into his arms and gazed down upon Regis’s child like a predator would its prey. His mind would forever replay the scene of the shield dropping in Ardyn’s confidence that no one would dare to attack him while he carried such precious cargo.

He was right.

“Well, now. Hello there,” the mage cooed, bouncing Noctis up and down as though that would calm the screaming prince.

 _That_ was what tore at Regis’s heart more than anything else. Noctis rarely cried. He would whine, whimper, and fuss when he was hungry or tired, but he fell silent quickly.

In Ardyn’s arms, Noctis _wailed_.

That didn’t perturb the former in the slightest.

“Such a handsome little prince,” he murmured so quietly that Regis could barely hear him. Ardyn remedied that immediately, raising his voice even though his gaze remained locked on Noctis, a hand pressed to his tiny chest. “He truly has inherited so many of your features, Your Majesty. I imagine that he will grow into quite a fine young man, as his father before him.”

With those words, a strange sensation settled over Regis, and Aulea’s stiffening at his side indicated that she could feel the same shift in the atmosphere. Sure enough, a dark glow emanated from Ardyn’s hand, illuminating him and Noctis both in an eerie red light.

“The prince shall indeed grow strong and wise as the Astrals have no doubt envisioned. His heart will be greater and kinder than he will realize, and all those who meet him shall know true devotion to one so worthy of their affections.”

Regis could see Ardyn’s hand tightening, _squeezing_ , and Noctis’s cries grew louder.

“ _But_ ,” the mage continued with deadly glee, “before the sun sets on his twentieth birthday, he will die by the blade of his own sword.”

Cor was the quickest. Before Aulea’s shriek of grief could fully escape her, he dove forward and caught Noctis as the prince fell from the empty space left behind when Ardyn vanished without a trace, dark laughter his only farewell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Sylva Nox Fleuret is killed in a similar way to the scene in "Kingsglaive."
> 
> Yes, I adapted some of Ardyn's lines to fit this scene. They were just too good not to. 8D
> 
> Soooo... Is now a bad time to say I'm going on vacation and won't be able to update until the middle of not this week, but the following week? Maybe now's a bad time... BUT the next chapter is entirely written, so it'll be ready for you as soon as I get back!


	3. Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm updating way earlier than I thought! This is what happens when you get to another country, get super sick the second day, and then have to fly home and end your vacation early. :'3 But hey, it means I get to show you the next part, so I guess it's not all bad! 
> 
> Now, I don't usually do dedications unless I'm filling a prompt. However, I am going to dedicate this chapter to the lovely [Roguehearted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguehearted/pseuds/roguehearted). She's been such an amazing friend, from throwing ideas around with me to promoting my fics within an inch of their lives to throwing on her Aranea boots and knocking some sense into me when I'm feeling insecure about my writing. She is also a phenomenal writer in her own right with so many awesome stories I can't even count. If you haven't given her a read, go do it--you won't regret it! Rogue, you're too awesome for words. I hope you and everyone else enjoy this chapter. :)

Once upon a time, there _was_ a king who sought to utilize the power of the fourth mage.

That king had a son, one who never quite understood the point. To wield the power of the Astrals was an honor and a privilege; only the chosen four could do so, and their duties to mankind took them to all parts of Eos. No mage was meant to be appropriated for the benefit of a sole country, nor were they to offer their allegiance to only one ruler. It simply wasn’t the will of the gods.

When the son had approached his father with such an argument, the latter had merely laughed. The son didn’t understand the world, claimed the king, and in time he would come to see how important it was to have a mage as powerful as the great Ardyn Izunia on their side.

King Mors died. King Regis ascended the throne. Still he failed to understand.

Neither did he dismiss the mage from his position. Ardyn was indeed a tremendous asset to the kingdom, that much could not be denied; his powers brought relief in times of great tragedy and hardship. When a storm so severe that it seemed like the gods themselves had constructed it with their bare hands ravaged Galdin, Ardyn was there. When the churning depths of Ravatogh finally erupted, covering the western coast in fire and ash, Ardyn was there. When the meteor, whose energy powered Lestallum, fully collapsed and its flame was extinguished, Ardyn was there. He provided aid and relief; he fed the hungry, healed the injured and the ill, and brought light to those who needed it most in the dark of nightfall.

His name went unmentioned, however. It was rare that he ever offered it to one of the grateful citizens that begged him to divulge who it was that had rescued them in their hour of need. Such was his agreement with King Mors once upon a time: never to reveal his true identity and risk the wrath of the gods for aligning himself with but one nation. Regis’s words to his father had done that much, at least, to sway the king’s opinion.

The new king should have known that the arrangement would never last.

It was many years into his reign that he realized the true extent of Ardyn’s powers—and deceit. In spite of his amazing feats, the likes of which the world had never seen nor would ever see again, there was more hiding beneath the surface that the mage had covertly nurtured for what Regis could only assume was countless decades. As a young man, he’d thought nothing of the long days, weeks, or even months that Ardyn spent away from the Citadel without explanation. He was a mage of the Astrals, after all, and likely had other important matters to attend to. Perhaps he left to converse with the gods about the state of Eos; maybe he met with the other mages. Such things would not be unheard of, so Regis did not dwell on his lack of knowledge regarding Ardyn’s whereabouts.

Eventually, strange tales began to reach Insomnia—whispers of dark creatures that attacked citizens and spread a deadly disease amongst them, transforming their victims into the selfsame beasts. _Daemons_ , the people were calling them. Similar monsters had been seen in ancient eras, but never in Regis’s lifetime had he been aware of their presence, especially not in the large quantities that were being reported by his advisors. This, he reasoned, was the purpose for which his father had enlisted Ardyn’s aid. It had to be.

So, Regis sent word by way of his most trusted attendants: they were to locate Ardyn wherever he happened to be, inform him of the blight plaguing Lucis, and return with him to the Citadel to assist in its obliteration. They were given all the resources they would need to move with haste, and although Regis had never made it a habit to pray to the Astrals for things that he could achieve by his own strength, he did so the day they left. He continued to do so every day that they were gone, even after one week and then two passed with no hopeful news.

Then, one morning just before dawn, a lone messenger returned. The man was racked with fever; a strange rash covered the side of his face. At first, he was not allowed anywhere near the throne room for fear that he would spread the disease to Regis, but the king refused to wait to hear his information. Instead he had gone to the infirmary for answers, Clarus by his side as always, so that no one else might suffer the same illness as his loyal attendant.

The story he was told had made his stomach churn and turned his blood to ice in his veins.

Regis prepared to leave Insomnia the following day. Had it been his choice, he would have gone immediately, but Clarus was immovable on the subject. Perhaps it was for the best: when Regis was preoccupied with matters pertaining to the kingdom, it was his Shield’s job to do his thinking for him elsewhere. As such, Clarus was the one to organize their journey and gather what necessary supplies they would need to emerge in a better state than Regis’s messenger. The king’s only designated parameter was that they were to be gone before first light.

They worked through the night, king and Shield alike, to collect the finest force of men from both the Kingsglaive and Crownsguard for their retinue. Automobiles were fueled, provisions were gathered, and weapons were made ready. Long before the sky began to lighten, its dull grey reflecting the grave thoughts swirling in Regis’s head, they were ready to depart.

There was no need, as it turned out. Regis and Clarus were issuing final instructions to the staff when the doors of the throne room opened to admit none other than their quarry.

At first, Regis was so taken aback that he could not speak. How was it that this man, who had served his father and himself for so many years that he wasn’t able to remember them all, could have betrayed them? Was it indeed possible that his path had led him astray into the terrors described to them by Regis’s attendant before he died in the late hours of the night? That casual grin, his carefree gait, the way he genuflected with deference to Regis’s authority—all of it was characteristic of the Ardyn who had been at the Citadel since well before Regis was born. None of it mattered, though. A monarch’s first duty was to his people, to see to it that when they were ill at ease or in outright peril, he pursued the suspects with the swift hand of justice.

And so he had asked the dreaded question.

“Ardyn Izunia, you stand accused of treason against the kingdom of Lucis and assault on its people,” he had declared the moment the mage straightened. Even his most authoritative tone wasn’t enough to still the trembling throughout the rest of his body. “Do you deny it?”

Donning an expression of utmost ignorance, Ardyn had done exactly that. Off in Tenebrae visiting the Oracle—that was his excuse. How could he have been discovered in the abandoned shrine overlooking Ravatogh when he hadn’t even been in Lucis? Why would anyone, let alone such a trusted and valued friend as the king himself, believe that he was somehow spreading the plague to manufacture his own hordes of daemons? For what purpose would he have bodies riddled with such scourge hanging high from the ceilings like grotesque, macabre marionettes? It was, Ardyn claimed, quite impossible. He had hoisted the blame upon perceived jealousy and hatred from the very people who he had helped despite all his long years of _loyal_ service to the crown; he had issued his heartfelt regret at the idea that Regis could entertain the notions that such foolish, envious humans dared to harbor.

For a moment, Regis nearly believed his lies, so convincing was his argument. There was, however, one facet of his story that was simply impossible.

What reason would anyone have to be jealous of one whom they did not know?

Why would lies of this nature spread about an individual who should have been unrecognizable in a crowd after keeping his identity hidden for the duration of his so-called _loyal_ service?

Not once had Regis ever seen Ardyn speechless. Not once—until that day.

The man he thought he’d known melted away, and in his place stood a monster of a sort that Regis had never encountered. Even the victims of the dreadful plague didn’t harbor the darkness that leaked from Ardyn’s pores like sweat, coating his skin until the glimmering yellow of his once dark eyes was emphasized tenfold.

Ardyn had lunged forward, his spectral weapons appearing behind him, but Clarus was prepared. Sword in hand, his Shield had placed himself directly in front of Regis and narrowly avoided the daggers that almost impaled him to slice clean through Ardyn’s stomach. The mage hadn’t the time nor opportunity to block the attack, but it made little difference—even as the blood and oddly dark ichor flowed from what should have been a grievous wound, Regis could see skin and clothing knitting back together. He realized it at the same time Ardyn leveled him with his most vicious, scathing leer.

The fourth mage could not be killed.

It was only the quick thinking of one of his guards that saved both him and Clarus from meeting their ends while their shock immobilized them. Before Ardyn had a chance to strike, a loud _clang_ echoed off the walls and his face went slack as he fell to his knees. Behind him stood Cor Leonis, a new member of the Crownsguard and, from that day forward, one of Regis’s closest confidants. He held nothing more than the flimsy metal shield of a new recruit in his hands.

With the sudden and unexpected blow throwing him off kilter, it was relatively simple for the rest of the guards to gather Ardyn’s limbs and restrain him. Had Regis not witnessed his transformation in those fleeting moments, he would have been tempted to believe that it was all a figment of his imagination. Ardyn appeared so normal, so _human_ once again—not even the return of his arrogant sneer could compete with the sheer malice he had affected.

Regis knew better, though. Perhaps he had _always_ known better, even if he had chosen not to act on his intangible, unsubstantiated suspicions. There was only one reason a mage would defy the very gods that had granted him his powers all to assist one nation—and that was so that he could use it and all its people in some way. It was so very clear now: Ardyn had maintained the illusion of innocence and benevolence all to avoid suspicion for his devious acts of blasphemy. He had used his influence over Regis to garner his favor only to betray him by capturing and experimenting on the king’s people with the dark magic that stood in direct conflict with the will of the gods.

And it was for those reasons, Regis said at the time, that he was banishing Ardyn from the kingdom of Lucis to spend the rest of his days alone in the prison of Angelgard.

He might have said Ardyn would be receiving a slap on the wrist for all the mage appeared to care about such things. For ten long years, that smirk had haunted his dreams and waking hours; his threats echoed in the darkness when his mind was awhirl and his sleep less peaceful. Promises of darkness and death, of revenge on Regis when he least expected it.

Well, Ardyn had certainly been right about that.

Rumors had circulated after a few months that Angelgard was empty and that Ardyn had apparently vanished into the ether. Clarus and Cor, who had received quite the promotion for his boldness, had immediately set the Citadel’s guards on high alert; the following weeks had been tense as they prepared for an attack from the spurned mage that never came. There was no telling how long it had been since he escaped his prison, but in all that time he never once appeared in Lucis. There were no tales of strange travelers or familiar mages; the daemons and outbreaks of the scourge had dwindled to almost nothing, with the exception of the occasional encounter. For all any of them knew, the Astrals had removed Ardyn themselves to punish him for his crimes.

Now, as Regis rocked back and forth with his baby boy held perhaps too tightly to his chest, he realized what a fool he had been.

He should have known it when they arrived at the Pitioss ruins to find exactly what his attendant had reported: infected bodies swinging on chains as they stared blankly downward, suspended over others like themselves and even more daemons that had perished at the swords of Regis’s guards. As they had explored the former shrine and discovered the grave and terrible experiments that Ardyn had been perpetrating against the people of nearby towns, the nauseous sensation of failure should have warned Regis that this was not the end—that the gods would not be so forgiving as to wipe Ardyn Izunia from the face of Eos.

But years had passed in peace. They had all grown a bit older and, most notably in Cor’s case, more experienced. More _complacent_ , he now realized. Regis and Clarus had both married, the latter’s wife bearing their first child three years before Regis and Aulea welcomed their own. Their lives had continued on, and the more time marched on without incident, the more the shadow of Ardyn’s threats dwindled.

_What a fool indeed._

Regis sighed, ignoring the way his fingers trembled as they tucked Noctis’s blankets tighter around him with almost obsessive regularity. His son had fallen asleep in his arms, unknowing and uncaring of the danger that would one day ensnare him. The terror that came with Ardyn’s curse hadn’t merely accompanied the premature death of their child, but the idea that it could happen at any time. _Before the sun sets on his twentieth birthday_ , the mage had decreed. When Noctis started walking, who was to say that he wouldn’t wander into one of the armories and accidentally injure himself? At some point, he would need to begin training with weapons—what happened then? Every single day of the next twenty years would be another twenty-four hours of just waiting for his son to meet his end.

Well, not his _end_. Not entirely. And for that tiny glimmer of hope that was constantly threatened by the darkness that seemed to surround it, he had Carbuncle to thank.

In the aftermath of the ceremony, there had been little thought given to the final blessing of the Astrals. People were dead—citizens and foreigners alike—and there were cries and screams that shattered the once peaceful atmosphere Aulea had fought so hard to construct. His wife had been as inconsolable as he was numb in the wake of Ardyn’s curse and departure. While the guards who still lived and guests not paralyzed by their grief began removing the bodies of the dead, Regis and Aulea remained sitting on the floor beside Noctis’s bloodstained bassinet, the latter’s tears dripping onto their son’s face as she rocked him into a calmer state. Regis could only look on, feeling suddenly as useless as he had been to imprison Ardyn all those long years ago. He wasn’t a king, not a father—but the most worthless, filthy particle of dust to mar the sunlight once again spilling in through the windows.

How dare the sun have the gall to shine at such a terrible time. If there was any justice in the world, any sympathy on the part of the gods, then the skies would have opened up and they would all have been felled by a gale so severe that it could wash away civilization itself.

But there was no justice in a world where a helpless baby could be cursed so easily, so readily, all in the name of revenge.

There was no sympathy from the Astrals when it was their power that would strike the killing blow.

Even now, nearly a week after the christening, Regis thought he would have died of a broken heart on the spot had it not been for Carbuncle padding up to him in that moment.

“There’s still a chance to fix this,” he’d squeaked out, his voice nearly lost beneath the incongruous wails of the grieving.

Regis had thought he’d heard wrong at first before he desperately demanded, “Can you reverse the spell?”

Carbuncle had shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t. None of us can undo what another mage does.”

There was a resounding _crash_ as the earth shattered in two, and Regis was sent plummeting to the very depths of Hell. That was how it felt, at least; his stomach dropped, and he had reached a trembling hand out to Noctis as though he might vanish into the void that seemed to stretch before them—that widening chasm that mocked him with a familiar chuckle…

“But I think I can make it better.”

Aulea’s breath had caught in her throat while they both stared down at Carbuncle in mingled hope and apprehension—neither wanted to sample the sweet aroma of faith if there was none to be had. But they were willing to try anything by that point, so Regis obliged when Carbuncle indicated that he should be closer to Noctis and picked up the guardian.

It would have brought a smile to Regis’s face to see Noctis curiously run his minuscule fingers through Carbuncle’s startlingly clean white fur under any other circumstances. Instead, he’d felt the cracks in his heart widen even further at the thought that that hand would one day turn cold and still.

_Twenty… He’d be hardly more than a child._

Swallowing hard, Regis’s free hand had found Aulea’s and they clung to each other as Carbuncle began to speak. Others gradually took notice, and the throne room grew silent once again to hear the gift this final, beneficent mage was willing to grant.

“Prince Noctis, don’t be scared,” the little fox said gently, the horn on his head starting to glow. Despite its reddish hue, it bore none of the cold treachery that Ardyn’s spell had exuded. His words were vastly unlike those of the blessings issued before his, as well: “One day, this dreaded prophecy will come true, but I’ll be there to see you through. Not in death, but just in sleep, your safety will be up to your friends to keep. Then, when by true love’s kiss you should wake, your fate will be yours in hand to take.”

Regis whispered those words like a prayer, planting a gentle kiss on Noctis’s forehead. This had become something of a ritual in the last week, but he couldn’t drag himself away from his son’s side even for a moment. When he had tried to attend a debriefing the day after the ceremony, it had nearly broken him. The importance of his guards’ assurances that the Citadel was safe had little impact on the anxious terror that clawed at his insides like one of the daemons that had once stalked the bowels of Pitioss. He still wasn’t quite sure what had kept him in his seat when his feet longed to fly from the council chambers and his fingers itched to hold his son. The instant the proceedings had been adjourned, he had nearly run out of the room, Clarus’s concerned exclamation ringing in his ears. No amount of comfort could ease his mind, however, not until he was back by Noctis’s side.

Never in his life would he have thought that the sight of his son’s chest rising and falling would be a greater gift than all the wealth and happiness in the land. Never would he have imagined in his wildest, most fantastical dreams that a cough or a sneeze or a diaper in need of changing would seem like a miracle. Every moment not spent with his son was a second lost to the bitter indifference of time, to the curse that would one day remove him from Regis’s life as suddenly as he had arrived.

And thus had a week gone by, hardly a minute passing where Noctis was out of his sight even though Aulea attempted to coax him away. Regis knew that she meant well and was merely attempting to protect his sanity, but it was no use. The king of Lucis was but a slave to his son’s constant presence.

It was there that Clarus found him, hours after Aulea had retired to their bedroom mere feet from the antechamber they had converted into a nursery as soon as they discovered they were to be adding a member to their family. The sound of the door opening had Regis automatically hunching his shoulders over Noctis’s prone form, building a barrier between him and the rest of the world. The sight of his Shield, trusted and true, coming around to sit in the chair across from him set him at least slightly more at ease. His expression, however, did not.

“Anything?” Regis whispered hoarsely, a silent plea in his eyes. The slight turning down at the corners of Clarus’s lips provided all the answer he needed before he offered it aloud.

“No sign of him, Regis,” his Shield replied. He ran a hand wearily over his face. “Wherever he is, Ardyn is no longer in Insomnia.”

“No longer in _Lucis_ , I’d wager.”

“That was our thought as well.”

Regis nodded slowly, lowering his head to observe Noctis’s steady breathing in an attempt to calm his own nerves. He had known, of course, that hunting for Ardyn after he’d left them would be a meaningless effort; the mage had powers they could only dream of, and even then it was doubtful that they would ever truly surmise the full extent of his might. Would it be such a travail for him to blink out of existence in Insomnia only to appear right in the center of Gralea, seat of the empire’s power? No, such a feat would be as nothing to the great Ardyn Izunia.

Regardless, Regis had asked, and Clarus did not argue. The Kingsglaive had spent the first few days after the christening scouring every inch of the city; when their search turned up no results, a few parties were sent outside the walls to neighboring towns to gather what information they could. Since then, their efforts had tapered off little by little until Regis was forced to admit that there was nothing more they could do. Even if they did capture Ardyn, he would never remove the spell now that it was cast. He had no incentive to do so.

“—n the gates. Cor is already adding extra men to the armories to monitor who comes and goes,” Clarus had apparently continued while Regis was lost in his meandering thoughts. “I’ve informed Drautos that their inventory of weapons must be more stringently scrutinized at the end of each day so that nothing finds its way into the main Citadel. That sho—“

“Clarus, stop.”

At his order, tremulous and weak as it was, his Shield went silent. Regis couldn’t bear to look up at him, knowing that there would only be weakness in his own gaze. Weakness that they could ill afford at times like this, which was very likely a part of Ardyn’s vengeful plan.

It took a few seconds for Regis to find his voice where it was caught behind the lump that had lodged itself in his throat intermittently over the last week. When he did, he distantly recognized that he didn’t sound much like a king. A grieving father, yes, one whose child hadn’t even been taken yet; the promise of that end, though, was enough to make him wish and pray to whatever deities would listen that he could take Noctis’s place. Let _him_ be cursed—let _him_ weather the brunt of Ardyn’s contempt. Anything but his heir, his child, his baby boy.

The gods weren’t listening. He couldn’t help but wonder if they ever had.

“Please do not think I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done…everything you _are_ doing, my old friend,” sighed Regis, adjusting Noctis’s blankets in that now familiar tick. “It’s just… You and I both know what Ardyn is capable of.”

Clarus nodded solemnly but did not speak. Maybe he knew that if he did, Regis’s resolve would waver and he’d never again be able to conjure the words he needed. It was difficult enough without interruptions.

“Even if he could be found, we have no leverage to force his hand. Guarding the armories is but a bandage over a festering wound. Noctis will not remain so small forever, and with agency comes increased risk that this curse will indeed come to pass. Now…may be the time to admit to ourselves the truth.”

_That_ prompted Clarus to interrupt gruffly, “And what truth is that, Regis?”

The comfort of hearing his name and not his title, of knowing that this was a conversation between friends rather than monarch and retainer, was fleeting. It seemed like nothing would be able to warm his soul when the shadow of death was looming over it, slavering for a life that hadn’t even been lived yet.

“That there is no stopping this, merely…prolonging the inevitable,” he murmured. Regis was too great a coward to speak in such a way to Aulea, hiding his thoughts from her for the first time that he could remember to preserve what little hope she had left. Her eyes, though, reflected her fears of the same.

He had finally admitted it. His wife would likely follow soon.

His Shield, however, was not so easily swayed.

“No,” he nearly growled in response, his eyes flashing dangerously when Regis lifted his gaze in surprise.

“No, what?”

“That is _not_ the truth, and you know it. There must be some way.”

Sighing, Regis shook his head. “We’ve done all we—“

“Have we?” interrupted Clarus. “Can you honestly say that you have done _everything_ in your power to keep this tragedy from happening?”

“You yourself have searched for Ardyn to no avail. Guards on the armory will do nothing if a determined soldier breaks ranks,” he argued, sudden heat filling his chest. It was not the warm glow of contentment but the vicious burning of a man balancing on a wire with nowhere to go but down.

Clarus waved an impatient hand. “We were never going to find that bastard, and you know it. Soldiers can be dealt with.”

“Then what would you have me do?” demanded Regis.

“Not _give up_!” They both flinched at his sudden volume, pausing for a moment to ensure that both Noctis and Aulea didn’t wake. After the silence remained unbroken for a minute, Clarus continued in little more than a hiss, “This is not the Regis I know. This is not the _king_ I serve. He would not cower in fear of one who means his family harm, not while his heart still beats.”

“And if it were Gladiolus?”

That brought Clarus up short. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he huffed in aggravation, glaring at the other end of the room. Regis pressed his advantage, if it could be called that, with sudden desperation.

“If our places were exchanged and it was Gladiolus who had been cursed, what would you do?” he pleaded in a whisper. The halfhearted attempt to defend himself had evaporated, leaving behind only the hope that his Shield would have something— _anything_ —that would take this pain away. That would fix this problem before it came to fruition.

At first, however, it appeared that he would not receive what he wished. For as strong and steadfast as Clarus had always been, as both friend and Shield, he was obviously at a loss when faced with the prospect of his own son’s suffering. Regis quashed a spark of jealousy that threatened to set his heart ablaze—Clarus’s boy was in no danger. Gladiolus would not grow up in fear, his every movement controlled the way Noctis’s would need to be if they were to spare him this fate. How fortunate for his Shield that he would never have to feel the agony of indecision that stalked Regis’s footsteps at every turn now that there would be an even greater cost of failure.

Regis forced his anguish aside, however, and refused to let it take hold of the one piece of his mind it had not yet touched. Clarus was loyal to him, as were Cor and so many of his closest confidants and retainers. They were doing all they could to set his mind at ease and protect his son in equal measures, all while he sat here grieving as though his son already had one foot in the grave.

_Does he not?_

The silence between them grew oppressive, interrupted only by Noctis’s occasional coughs and whimpers. With each restless noise, Regis shushed him and pressed an absentminded kiss to his forehead, lingering only long enough to wonder how many more times he would be allowed to have a moment like this with his child before he was stolen away. It wasn’t until after he’d lost count of how often he’d repeated the same action that Clarus spoke, his tone as heavy as his words.

“I would likely do the same,” he admitted, leaning forward to rest his elbows against his knees. “But I would hope that my closest friend would tell me that I was being a fool and push me towards action.”

Regis couldn’t help the chuckle that bubbled up from his chest. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose I should be grateful to have one willing to do the same for me.”

“You damn well should.”

Smirking, Regis adjusted Noctis’s weight and sank back against his seat. In his friendship with Clarus, he could always count on one thing: that the latter would be honest even to the point of brutality. There were, of course, moments when that did more harm than good, but…he couldn’t say he didn’t need the push. Aulea had been pleading with him for days to drag himself from the depression that latched onto his senses. Every time he tried, however, something went wrong—Ardyn couldn’t be found, leads were eliminated, options were torn from them—and he felt himself falling even further into the depths of despair.

But Clarus was right. As much as he was a grieving father, his role as king could not be set aside forever. A week was already longer than he could afford to be away, even if the very notion of letting Noctis out of his sight made his stomach roil. Yet in that time, Regis’s mind hadn’t been quite as idle as his body. No, that refused to be silenced in spite of his every attempt to do so.

And it wasn’t merely his grief that would not be quelled.

Seeming to sense his unease, so different from the utter defeat he’d been feeling mere moments ago, Clarus frowned. “You have an idea.”

_Why must he know me so well?_

“I have two,” confirmed Regis through clenched teeth, “neither of which I have shared with Aulea yet.”

“Why?” inquired Clarus slowly, his eyes narrowed. His scrutiny made Regis grimace, unconsciously hugging Noctis closer.

“Because I was hoping another option would present itself.”

“But it hasn’t.”

Regis shook his head mutely. While others were chasing ghosts around the city, he had been struggling to come up with _any_ plan that would provide a better alternative to the two that stood before him—him _and_ his wife, who was certain to hate them both just as thoroughly as he did. It was all to no avail, though. Every time he formulated a new strategy, an inconvenient reason surfaced that invalidated its effectiveness. In the end, all he had was the rock and the hard place, with himself wedged right in the middle.

It was a testament to just how well Clarus knew him that he didn’t ask right away, for Regis was in no way anxious to take even his Shield into his confidence on this matter. His counsel would be invaluable, yes, but Regis feared it all the same. Having two potential courses laid out before one’s feet was one thing; knowing which you would be taking was another.

They couldn’t avoid the subject forever, though, and Clarus’s hesitant sigh heralded the end of what meager peace Regis had been able to fool himself into believing existed between them.

“What are our options, Your Majesty?” inquired his Shield with soft deference to his position. The time for comfort, it seemed, was over. The time for strength had come.

Steeling himself, Regis absorbed what courage he could from Clarus’s fortitude and began, “We need only concern ourselves with making it past Noctis’s twentieth birthday. Once he comes of age and is beyond the curse’s sway, he will be safe.”

At least, that was what he and Aulea hoped. There was no telling what Ardyn would do should his plan backfire—they hardly knew what would happen tomorrow much less twenty years from now. Still, they could hope for that much even if the precarious nature of Noctis’s survival until then had their faith shaken.

“Twenty years is not such a long time,” shrugged Clarus with the conviction of a man who was already used to the passage of time in the presence of children. Regis wished he could share his surety.

“You may well change your mind about that,” he retorted wryly, but it was without much humor. His mouth was too soured by the taste of his next words. “This curse can only be initiated with the blade of a sword— _Noctis’s_ sword, he said.”

Clarus muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously profane but otherwise didn’t comment.

“Our first option is to remove all swords and similar weapons from every armory in the Citadel and corner of the city,” Regis continued in his best imitation of the tone he usually affected when he was seated upon his throne. His eyes remained fixed on Clarus; if they strayed to his son, he had no doubt that his confidence would crumble back into the pile of rubble his Shield had rebuilt it from.

“That would leave us defenseless,” Clarus immediately retorted, his brow furrowed in surprised frustration.

“We have a sizable store of firearms availab—“

“Not nearly enough to defend _Insomnia_ let alone the whole of Lucis!”

There was an edge to his words when Regis rejoined, “I am well aware of that.” It seemed to calm Clarus, if only slightly.

“It would take time that we do not have to gather the supply of firearms necessary to combat the empire should they decide to invade,” his Shield murmured, running his hands over his face. “With the imperial blockade, we couldn’t rely on Accordo to provide the sheer numbers we would need.”

“And in the meantime, we would be left open to attack,” added Regis with a nod. When Clarus dropped his hands, there was a scowl on his face that had sent larger men running on the battlefield.

“Ardyn must know that would be the case.”

“He will undoubtedly have informed Emperor Aldercapt, as well.”

His Shield cursed under his breath, shaking his head angrily. “This is not an option—it’s suicide.”

“In the event that Niflheim managed to gather enough resources and soldiers to mount an assault of that scale, yes,” agreed Regis carefully. They both knew how unlikely that was to happen, especially when outright war had demolished enough resources in both Lucis and the empire to have resulted in something of a ceasefire a few years prior. With Ardyn on their side, however…

No, Regis had to believe that he wouldn’t make that move. Not yet, at the very least. It was clear that Ardyn wanted him to suffer in the most personal, agonizing way possible. It was doubtful that he would attempt to conquer Lucis with his madman of an emperor before Noctis…

Before he…

It was a relief that Clarus chose that moment to demand, “What is our other option?”

At that, Regis fumbled. His brain knew what needed to be said, but his lips refused to form the words. He couldn’t help chancing a glance at the door that separated them from his sleeping queen. It felt like a betrayal to share this with Clarus before consulting with her first, and yet…he simply _couldn’t_. Perhaps it made him a terrible husband and an even worse father, but his heart was so thoroughly shattered at the mere thought that he only wished to spare his wife the pain of this revelation. The moment he told her, the rest of their world would crash down around them because he already knew what she was more likely to choose.

And he hated it with every fiber of his being.

Inhaling a stuttering breath, Regis stroked his fingers along the smooth skin of Noctis’s cheek, already picturing it differently—older, thinner, perhaps bristled with hair. _Twenty years…_

“Our other option is to send Noctis away,” he eventually managed, his voice cracking on the last syllable. Sniffing, he attempted to compose himself and continued, “Find him someplace safe outside the city, away from any location that might bear arms with someone we can trust with this secret.”

The only answer he received was silence. It was foolish of him to believe that his Shield would react as strongly to this alternative as he had to the former. This, after all, would not destroy millions of lives.

Only three.

So, there he stood on the precipice of a place he had known he would one day approach the moment he heard his baby boy emerge into the world. He couldn’t bring himself to feel bitterness for his plight, not when it was always destined to happen. It was only disappointing that it had to be so soon.

The gods had to be laughing at him when Clarus quietly, mournfully asked, “What will you decide?”

Regis brushed his tears from Noctis’s forehead where they began to drip fast and heavy. What _would_ he choose—to preserve, to protect, to defend?

His kingdom from disaster or his son from growing up alone?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carbuncle speaking through phones just didn't work with this AU, so I hope you don't mind if I take a few liberties. ;)


	4. Safe Haven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll see some dialogue with a lot of typos in it. That is on purpose. ;)

The sun crested slowly over the towering peaks of the distant hills, bathing the vast brown expanse of Leide in its warm glow. Lingering shadows fled as it illuminated the landscape, and the last vestiges of night slipped back into their holes to await the coming of dusk once again. Despite the summer heat giving way to an early autumn chill now that October was well underway, the pavement was rapidly heating until the air seemed to shimmer with increasing humidity. It was certainly not the best time for a hitchhiker to be making his way down the side of the road, his threadbare jeans and worn boots churning up a cloud of dust as he hiked past The Three Valleys towards Hammerhead.

At least, that was what anyone who happened to pass him would have thought. As well they should.

Cor Leonis didn’t frequently leave Insomnia on solo missions. Ever since he’d come into King Regis’s employ and earned his place amongst his monarch’s most trusted retainers, it was rare that he set foot outside the Crown City at all, as a matter of fact. There was enough to be doing within the confines of the Citadel; the Kingsglaive was usually summoned when matters outside the capital required attention. Now and again, however, a situation would arise that was too delicate for a group of soldiers to manage. Some things were simply best handled in the shadows.

That was where Cor came in. Although he was young when he joined the Crownsguard, he had refused to rest until he had proven his loyalty and competence. Now that he had, it was his duty to see to it that the king’s orders were carried out, whether that was to be done in the open or by stealth. Stealth was always more entertaining, even if it took longer than the alternative. When he’d first been sent out on these errands, he thought of it as some kind of game—allowing yourself to be seen or alerting the enemy to your whereabouts was game over. He was the Crown City’s most accomplished player, objectively speaking. Not once had he been caught on one of the so-called _diplomatic missions_ King Regis assigned to him. He’d be damned if this time would be any different. There was too much at stake for him to fail.

Of course, baking in the Leiden heat wasn’t exactly what he would call appealing no matter how important his task was. He would have to make this quick.

The plan was relatively simple from start to finish. After the chaotic mess that was the prince’s christening, all Cor knew was that the king and queen had decided it would be safest for everyone if Noctis was removed from public scrutiny. The details were still in their nascent stages and couldn’t be fully developed until Cor completed his mission, one that he’d internally cringed at when King Regis and Clarus outlined it. There were very few people outside of Insomnia that would be able to take in and raise a young prince, and none of those homes could be with anyone likely to attract unwanted attention. Diplomats and the higher classes were immediately ruled out as potential caregivers, as were random and unwitting lower-class families who would just think they were adopting a normal little boy. Their options were exceedingly few.

Actually, their options amounted to only _one_.

Which was how Cor ended up hiking down the shoulder of the dusty, stifling road to Hammerhead in the guise of a poor traveler. King Regis hadn’t trusted anyone else with the information that needed to be conveyed to ensure the prince’s enduring safety—and, hopefully, their target’s cooperation—but Cor’s identity wasn’t a well-kept secret. His face had been plastered on television screens around Lucis at one point or another, and it was public knowledge who ran the various government offices essential to the operation of their monarchy. If anyone were watching carefully enough—if that bastard mage happened to be snooping around, which was always a distinct probability now that they were aware of his motives, Cor had to remain unrecognizable.

The result had been one of the most convoluted road trips imaginable. He’d left the Citadel in his Crownsguard finest, reportedly on a trip to Lestallum to discuss royal matters with the remote city’s mayor. Once there, he’d donned the clothes of a farmhand and hitched a ride with one of the outgoing produce trucks to an outpost just north of Cauthess. The final leg of his journey had required a three-night stay in a caravan before walking through the Duscaen countryside, past the Norduscaen Blockade, and through the sweltering heat of Leide towards his destination.

He was exhausted. He was smelly. And he had to do it all over again in reverse to get home. All he could say was that their target had better agree to this arrangement or there would be hell to pay.

Needless to say, Cor was indescribably relieved when he finally saw the familiar Hammerhead sign crop up over the swirling sand that constantly barraged this part of the country. He didn’t want to call Leide the shitstain of Lucis…but it wasn’t as if anyone could hear his thoughts. Duscae was a beautiful tableau of mountains and trees and water; even the volcanic landscape of Cleigne was appealing in its own way. Leide, though… If it wasn’t desert, it was jagged, brown rock. Abandoned cars were left on the sides of the road, rusted over so heavily that Cor wondered how long they’d been there without any of the local municipalities sending someone to pick them up. Derelict shacks dotted the plains; it was a wonder they hadn’t fallen down yet to add to the trash heaps that rose high into the air near Keycatrich Trench. The only part of this region that wasn’t an absolute mess was Galdin, but its position on the border of Duscae made it difficult to _really_ classify it as part of Leide.

Hammerhead was…well, different. It wasn’t as classy and sophisticated as Galdin Quay—the owner of the garage would never stand to do business in a place like that—but it wasn’t as dilapidated as most of the other outposts in the area either. As Cor approached, keeping his head down with his dirty ball cap shadowing his features, he smirked to see that nothing much had changed in the time since his last visit many years prior. It wasn’t often that he made it out this way; the most he saw of the place was on the infrequent occasions when he had to drive by to get somewhere else. The garage was still the same as always, the biggest building in Hammerhead and teeming with enough cars to keep a mechanic busy for a decade. The gas station and diner were quiet this early in the morning, but Cor knew that would change soon enough.

For now, he was just glad to see that his calculations had been correct and he was arriving at a time when he could get in and get out without drawing any attention to himself. Hopefully.

The bleary eyes of the groggy local hunters loitering about near the arms seller passed over him as he diverted from the road and made a beeline for the garage. Ten years of training kept him from stiffening the way someone else might have, but his eyes shifted covertly to observe them even though his steps never faltered. Fortunately, none of them took any more interest in him than that, and they soon turned back to what they were doing—which was apparently abusing the merchant over what they felt should have been discounted. It was at times like this that Cor counted his blessings for his chosen vocation.

The noise of the entitled, asinine hunters ripping off their supplier was mercifully cut off as he stepped into the cool, shaded garage bay. It was always amazing to note the difference between life inside Insomnia as opposed to beyond the walls: the technology was behind anything the mechanics of the Crown City used, but he supposed it did the trick to keep the seemingly ancient cars road ready. There was one such vehicle pulled into the main area, jacked up a few feet with the tires removed and its hood propped open with a rusted metal rod. Cor frowned when he saw a pair of feet sticking out from underneath the far side, alarm bells already going off in his head as he darted forward to pull a small child out from beneath the car before she could get hurt.

“That’s not a place for kids your age,” he remarked sternly, loosening his grip as the kid struggled against him.

The little girl, who couldn’t be much older than five or six at the most, leveled him with a pout so venomous that even Clarus’s son couldn’t compete.

“That’s my _job_ ,” she huffed back with her arms folded across her chest. She even stomped her foot for good measure.

Cor, meanwhile, had to raise an eyebrow at that. “Your job,” he repeated skeptically, only for the little girl to nod once in resolute confirmation.

“Uh-huh. Paw-paw tolded me so.”

_For the love of all that is good in this world…_

“And where can I find this…paw-paw?”

“Ain’t gotta look no further’n right here.”

Apparently, the commotion had caused enough of a stir to summon the owner of the garage from his office, and the glare he was sporting didn’t bode well for Cor. Perhaps Cid Sophiar didn’t take kindly to customers manhandling his child workers to safety.

All of a sudden, Cor wondered whether this _really_ was the best course of action.

“You got a problem, you take it up with me,” Cid continued before Cor had a chance to explain himself. “You don’t put’cher grubby hands on my granddaughter.”

Well, that explained quite a bit already. Cor bit back a sarcastic comment and instead replied, “My apologies. I thought she might be in some kind of danger.”

Cid barked a laugh. “She knows more’n you do ‘bout what she’s doin’ with that car.”

“I’ll take your word for it, although the king’s labor laws impose strict penalties on the employment of children.”

That was a little too close to the line for what Cid would tolerate, it seemed, because his expression went from haughty lenience to aggravated contempt faster than Prince Noctis could fill a diaper. _Impressive._

“She ain’t gonna learn ‘cept by doin’,” he practically growled in response, gesturing angrily at Cor. “And the hell you know ‘bout the _king’s laws_? Ain’t no king sittin’ round here worryin’ ‘bout my garage.”

Nodding in acknowledgement, Cor turned his back towards the exit, pulled off his hat once he was sure no one could see his face, and brushed the dust from his cheeks. “Perhaps he’s not sitting here, but he _does_ worry.”

Despite the ten years it had been since their last encounter, Cid recognized him immediately. He didn’t say anything, but Cor could tell from the way he blinked owlishly and the disdain slipped from his face to leave something blankly surprised in its wake.

“Well, I’ll be damned…”

“Good to see you too, Cid,” Cor greeted him wryly. Cid snorted, seeming to snap himself out of whatever flashback had gripped him with a humorless huff.

“The hell you doin’ out in these parts?” he asked gruffly in what Cor assumed was an attempt to save face. Some things never changed.

Hazarding a glance at the open garage door, he inclined his head pointedly as he answered, “It would be best if we spoke in private.”

Cid hummed in distaste. He’d always been an uneducated hick, in Cor’s opinion, but that didn’t mean he was unintelligent. In fact, Cor would argue that Cid was one of the sharpest individuals he’d ever had the pleasure (some days) of meeting. It would have been a bigger shock if he _wasn’t_ suspicious of the royal marshal’s sudden and unexpected appearance.

“Cindy, why don’t you run along to Takka’s ‘n’ see if he needs any help,” Cid eventually sighed. His granddaughter— _Cindy_ , apparently—didn’t look pleased at the prospect, so he gave her an encouraging wave. “Go on, git.”

He waited for her to do as she was told, unhappy as she was about it, before motioning for Cor to follow him into his office without a backwards glance.

Oh, yes. This was indeed the same old Cid.

That much became all the more obvious when Cor stepped inside and shut the door behind him, instinctively cataloging the features of the room as anyone in his position would be inclined to do. The place was small, but then, he supposed Cid didn’t need a great deal of space in here when most of his work was out in the main area of the garage. It was really just enough for a desk, two chairs on either side of it, and a couple of filing cabinets that had seen better days twenty or thirty years ago. The only thing that truly surprised him was the number of photographs that lined the walls and cluttered every surface. There were framed images of babies and young couples wearing huge smiles; a child’s messy drawings, probably Cindy’s, were tacked up over the old computer monitor that sat in the corner of Cid’s desk. Cor even spotted one photo on top of the cabinet closest to the wall—a familiar one he never thought he’d see here.

The day he’d taken that picture was still fresh in his mind, as if he could ever forget. It was back before Cid and King Regis had their falling out, the culmination of years of an unequal friendship where one side had little idea of how the other lived—of how they suffered. It was back before Cid had left the Crown City behind to become one of the most famous mechanics in all of Lucis. Personally, Cor wondered if his success was meant to spite the king for what Cid considered a slight against someone of his lower status. The details of their argument were vague at best; all Clarus had been willing to divulge was that the wedge between the two had grown to reflect the chasm between their fates. Such petty disagreements had always seemed childish, even when Cor was a few years younger and far less wise. He was only twenty-five, yet he felt so much older after everything he’d seen in his tenure.

Maybe that was why the picture caught his eye and held it. That had been the first time he accompanied his king on a venture outside of the Citadel, and he had felt so honored at being given the opportunity. Others had come with them, of course, but the king preferred to travel with those whom he knew well. Cor was there, flattered and preening in the way any fifteen-year-old would at such a compliment, as was Cid. Clarus claimed that it was in case the Regalia broke down and they needed their master mechanic to get it working again, but Cor knew that King Regis would hardly stand to be separated from his friend’s side nevertheless. His Shield was an obvious choice, and Weskham Armaugh had accompanied them as one of the king’s advisors and confidants. To be included in such a retinue was like a dream, one Cor hadn’t wanted to wake up from at the time.

Looking back on it, he couldn’t help thinking he’d been foolish. New to the Crownsguard, flying high on the knowledge that he had rescued the king and his Shield from death at the hands of an evil mage, he never would have expected his first important journey to end the way it had.

Pitioss was a sight that would haunt him forever. Seeing Ardyn again at the christening had brought back all those memories, the gruesome and terrible images that he didn’t realize existed in those days. Now he knew.

After clearing the ancient ruins of the worst of Ardyn’s treachery, they had stopped in Caem to regroup before returning to Insomnia. That was the first time they were able to breathe easily again, naively believing that their enemy was contained within stone walls and that his scourge would never again darken the world. It had been Cor’s idea to take the picture in the shadow of the lighthouse, King Regis leaned up against the car with coffee in hand while the others gathered in solidarity around their friend and leader.

That was the last time they were all together. Weskham had left for Accordo not long after, and Cid followed suit almost immediately. Never in his wildest imaginings would he have expected their former mechanic, the king’s former friend, to have stored the keepsake in a place of honor for all these years.

Cor could only hope this would make his task that much easier.

It seemed unlikely, though, when Cid dropped into his desk chair with a weary grunt and glared up at him with renewed irritation. “This is as private as it’s gonna get. Now, what the hell’re you here for? I know it ain’t to pay an old man a visit.”

The urge to remind him that he was hardly an _old man_ despite being more advanced in years than King Regis was difficult to swallow, but Cor managed it nonetheless. Instead, he sat in the chair opposite the desk and pulled a nondescript, sealed envelope from the inner lining of his jacket. Cid’s eyes followed it with thinly veiled but obviously grudging curiosity as he slid it across to him.

“As I’m sure you know, our mutual friend recently had a child,” he began, careful with his wording. The king would call it paranoid, but Cor was used to assuming that every wall had ears.

Grunting in the affirmative, Cid mumbled, “Yeah, I heard.”

Excellent. They wouldn’t have to start entirely from the beginning, then.

“There are some things you _don’t_ know, however,” he continued somberly. “No one does.”

“What, the kid sick ‘er somethin’?”

_If only it were as simple as that._

Cor shook his head. “Not quite. That letter will explain everything better than I can.”

At that, Cid shot him a suspicious glare as he tore open the envelope like it might bite him. Cor couldn’t say that he would behave any differently if placed in a similar position: it had to be surreal to spend ten years living your life only for the past to come barging in when you least expected it.

Cor waited in silence while Cid’s eyes scanned over the words King Regis had deemed necessary only for his eyes. Even Cor hadn’t been privy to exactly what its contents entailed; he figured he knew enough of the story to be getting on with, having been there himself, so it didn’t rankle. Besides, it likely cost the king a great deal to write what had to be the most difficult request any monarch—any _parent_ —could ask of someone. He deserved what privacy he could get.

A change seemed to come over Cid’s demeanor as he read further along the page and soon flipped to the second and third. It was so subtle that Cor thought he would have missed it if his job wasn’t to be attuned to fine details. The standoffish, stiff set of his shoulders began to slump, and his eyes widened with each line. Many years had passed since Cor had seen a Cid as grim as the one who eventually set the letter down on his desk and rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t immediately request an answer; a few moments to process was the least he could offer given the gravity of the choice he had to make.

That, oddly enough, wasn’t the first concern on Cid’s mind.

“So, that bastard’s back again, huh?”

Sighing, Cor replied, “It looks like he never actually left.”

“Figures,” huffed Cid, sitting back in his chair and glaring at the king’s letter as if it had personally affronted him. “Never did think he was gone for good.”

They all should have been the same. It was one of the few failures he admitted to having: considering Ardyn Izunia as anything less than a threat after what he had seen that day in the throne room. Another was his inability to save the prince from the fate to which he had been doomed. If he could ensure that Cid accepted the king’s proposal, perhaps it would be a step towards the atonement he craved for his idiocy.

When he asked what Cid thought of the offer, however, the latter shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Askin’ an awful lotta me, lookin’ after Reggie’s kid,” he grumbled, refusing to look up from his desk.

Cor leaned forward in his seat to admit, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but you were the first person the king would even consider.”

With a sardonic chuckle, Cid shook his head and finally met Cor’s gaze. “You’n I both know I was the _only_ person he could consider.”

Well, there was no lie there.

“Are you surprised?” asked Cor rather than deigning to offer confirmation. “There are few people outside the Crown City that he can trust with something as important as this.”

“It’s been ten years since I seen Reggie,” interjected Cid with a flippant wave of his hand. Cor quirked an eyebrow.

“What difference does that make?”

Snorting, Cid grumbled, “How the hell does he know he can still _trust_ me like you say he does?”

“Because you’re a good man,” Cor responded without hesitation. When Cid didn’t look convinced, he added, “Time can’t change that.”

A little bit of color rose to Cid’s cheeks at the confidence Cor injected into his assertion, although he didn’t answer right away. Instead he read back through the letter one more time, sighing as he reached up to take off his battered ball cap and toss it down onto the desk beside him.

“So, let’s say I do this,” he mused warily after a few minutes, surveying Cor like he was waiting for him to lie. “You’re tellin’ me I gotta raise the kid till he’s come of age?”

“Until he turns twenty, yes. After that, he would return to the Citadel.”

Grunting, Cid shook his head. “I already got a kid that needs lookin’ after. Ain’t got no more room for another.”

Cor grimaced. He’d been trying not to think about Cid’s granddaughter, but perhaps he could use her to his advantage. “Wouldn’t it be better if Cindy had another child around to play with?” he wheedled.

“By the time that boy’s potty trained, she’ll be a little lady,” scoffed Cid. “Ain’t gonna be int’rested in playin’ with a toddler.”

_Damn._

“She could help you care for him, then,” Cor argued before Cid could give him yet another reason why this wouldn’t work. “That would lessen the burden for yourself.”

“Yeah, and throw it on _her_.”

“Only as much as any sibling cares for another.”

Cid raised an eyebrow but didn’t choose to comment on that. Cor couldn’t exactly say he was speaking from experience, as Cid was well aware. Regardless, people always said there was a special bond between siblings, right?

Not enough of one to move Cid, apparently.

Scooting forward in his chair, Cor leaned his palms against the desk and leveled Cid with such an imploring look that he was almost ashamed of it. He couldn’t bring himself to feel the awkwardness he knew he should, though: he would do this and so much more for his king, queen, and prince.

“You were right before, Cid. You _are_ the only one who can do this. The king has exhausted all of his other options. If you do not take Noctis in, he will be in constant danger. Set aside your anger at the king and remember that you were once brothers. He’s not asking you this as your monarch—he’s asking you as a _friend_. Will you really turn your back on him?”

It was difficult to tell whether his words had any impact whatsoever. In fact, he felt like he may have shouted into the void for all the response he got. Cid simply stared at him, his expression as unaffected as it had been when he first asked why Cor had come. There was _something_ simmering beneath the surface, but the years that had twisted Cid’s back and gnarled his hands rendered it unrecognizable. That made the bubble of hope in Cor’s chest deflate even faster than the sight of him folding up the letter, returning it to its envelope, and holding it out with a shake of his head.

“I’m sorry, Cor,” he muttered so quietly it was difficult to hear in spite of the silence that weighed heavily around them. “Ain’t got no room for another young’un to raise on my own. One’s enough.”

A moment passed where he could hardly register the words. When he did, Cor swallowed hard around the bitter taste of defeat. A third failure, then, and one he was most certainly not looking forward to reporting back to King Regis. Three weeks of searching high and low for Ardyn Izunia, of plans made in the dead of night when no one would be awake to overhear them, of traveling incognito to the one person who could be their salvation—all for nothing. How was he supposed to return to Insomnia with this news and witness the way his king would break under the walls closing in around him?

No, he couldn’t. Not yet.

Holding his hand out, Cor shoved the letter right back at Cid and rose to his feet. He set his lips in a grim line and called upon all the strength he had acquired as the marshal of the Crownsguard when he said, “This isn’t a light decision to make. It was foolish of me to expect an answer immediately. My journey has been long, and I’m tired. I’ll be renting out the caravan for the night and leaving first thing tomorrow morning. If you change your mind, come find me.”

“I ain’t gonn—“

“Just,” Cor stopped him with a raised hand, “just think on it. That’s all I’m asking right now.”

Cid eyed him suspiciously, clearly believing that this was some kind of trap, before shrugging in a noncommittal sort of dismissal. For now, it appeared that would have to do.

 

***

 

“Any more, Your Majesty?”

“No, I think that will be all,” Regis declined, laughing as Noctis shoved his fist into his mouth and started batting at the blue stuffed Carbuncle toy Aulea held in front of him. The desired effect was that it would calm him enough to sit through more portraits, but so far, it was doing the exact opposite. “It would appear that _one_ of us has had quite enough of that for one day.”

The photographer bowed and set about packing up his equipment with a level of haste Regis had to admire. “Indeed, Your Grace. I’ll have these printed and delivered to Your Majesties immediately.”

“We appreciate your service.”

After another genuflection and a few words of gratitude for choosing his company, he was out the door and Regis could finally slump back against his throne in a less kingly fashion. Aulea immediately deposited Noctis in his lap, and he chuckled dryly at the familiar weight of his rapidly growing son.

“Long day, my dear?” he inquired sympathetically as Aulea stood from her seat and groaned lightly.

“A long _week_ ,” she corrected him with a smirk. “While _some_ of us were busy combatting imperial embargoes, others were organizing the diplomatic dinner with Tenebrae next month.”

Regis winced, nodding in understanding. That _would_ be quite the chore indeed. After the death of the Oracle, Tenebrae had been left in a difficult position: both heirs were still too young to rule. Eight was nowhere near old enough for Ravus to lead a nation even with the help of his mother’s council, nor was he prepared to undergo the stress of a coronation when Regis had heard he was still grieving her loss too strongly. And little Luna… Oracles had always descended from the House Fleuret; theirs was a family that had long been blessed by the gods. Now that her mother was gone, those gifts she had wielded would pass on to her. No one could expect a four-year-old to carry the weight of such a tremendous burden.

So, Tenebrae had fallen into the care of its council, and a regent had been appointed until Ravus came of age. As soon as they had come to the decision and settled matters within their own country, Regis and Aulea had extended a hand of friendship and cooperation, as well as the invitation to return to Lucis for a dinner where they could discuss ongoing diplomacy between their allied nations. It was with respect to the prince and princess that they did not hold the affair in Tenebrae: not only was the populace still in mourning, but it would have been rather uncomfortable for them to endure the presence of those who had indirectly caused their mother’s death.

Aulea constantly told him not to think that way, but it was a feat he had yet to master. Had Sylva never come to Lucis, had she never performed the rite, there would have been no reason for her to stand between Noctis and a monster only to lose in the end.

Now wasn’t the time for those thoughts, however. Regis had his son in his lap, sucking on the fingers of one hand while the other loosely grasped the fake Carbuncle’s horn. His wife was smiling at his side. They were to entertain their friends in the coming weeks and do what Lucis had always done best: help others. He could allow himself to smile and put what had happened in this very room out of his mind for a while.

“Perhaps you could use a little helper,” he joked, tickling Noctis’s stomach. His tiny arms and legs flailed a bit, and Regis was inordinately pleased to see one of those increasingly frequent smiles aimed his way.

Laughing lightly, Aulea ran her fingers through Regis’s hair only to tug at the ends in retaliation. “Noctis has been an _enormous_ help already, so you can wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Has he?”

“Quite. Every time Lady Amicitia disagrees about the settings and arrangements, he has the impeccable timing of requiring a diaper change.”

Regis snorted, wryly musing, “Running out on Clarus’s wife and using your own child as an excuse.”

“Hardly,” Aulea waved him off with a grin. “I simply have _her_ change him while I finalize the arrangements.”

That had Regis laughing heartily, lifting Noctis up to eye level. It was remarkable that in such a seemingly short amount of time, he was already nearly capable of holding his head up on his own.

“You’re your mother’s son, you know that?” Regis cooed, kissing Noctis’s nose while the latter coughed contentedly in his face.

“As if his father wouldn’t be so inclined,” Aulea shot back.

“You realize I am your king, correct?”

“And _you_ realize I am your _wife_ , correct?”

“Noctis, never get married,” Regis whispered theatrically into his son’s ear. “It’s positively frightening.”

When he responded only by shoving his drool-sodden hand in Regis’s face, Aulea burst out laughing.

“It would appear, Your Majesty,” she managed between giggles, “that our child is on _my_ side.”

“Traitor,” muttered Regis in mock disappointment, poking the heretofore forgotten stuffed toy into Noctis’s face to prompt that little gurgle of delight that seemed to have cropped up overnight. His tiny hand batted at it a couple of times before dropping limply to his side as his mouth fell open in a yawn. Tutting gently, Regis relegated the toy to his wife and settled Noctis more comfortably in his arms. “I know. Being two months old is exhausting.”

“He’ll be an old man by three,” hummed Aulea. She reached out a hand to brush the hair from Noctis’s forehead, kissing Regis’s cheek in the process.

It was the perfect moment. If he had a choice, he would have frozen it in time and basked in the warmth of it forever. _This_ was how he wished things could always be: his wife at his side, their child in his arms, a day’s work long since done so that he could spend the evening in their company. His mind desperately wanted to ruin it with reminders of the looming threat before them and just how short-lived these precious days together would be if all went according to plan, but he refused to let it. Now that he had emerged from the shell of grief that had kept him imprisoned, he found a new sense of purpose. Every second of his day was dedicated to making this world a better place for his son, so that when he _did_ come of age and _survived_ , he would inherit something that would tell him more of his parents’ love than words could ever describe. It was his new mission in life, one that he would devote every breath to seeing fulfilled.

Right now, however, he was content to merely be present in the moment. In this fleeting instant, he could find peace.

Fleeting it was, indeed, for the throne room doors opened loudly a few minutes later to admit one of the guards that were always stationed outside.

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesties, but Marshal Leonis has returned and begs an audience.”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Regis’s stomach, filling him with a chill that wiped out his contentment as he ordered, “Send him in.”

The guard retreated into the corridor, and they had just enough time to exchange an uneasy glance before Cor strode into the room, looking exhausted and so much older than his years. Despite the slump of his gait, however, he moved purposefully towards the throne and dropped to one knee at the foot of the steps as always.

“There’s no need to stand on ceremony right now, Cor,” Regis gently rebuked him. After a decade, he would have thought that he would need to remind him less, but it was more often the case that Cor reverted to formality. He never disobeyed a direct command, though, and the marshal raised his head to meet both his and Aulea’s eyes before nodding once and rising to his feet.

“I apologize for the delay in my arrival,” he began, still far more formal than was strictly necessary. “I wanted to ensure that I wasn’t followed.”

Regis shook his head. “Your care and attention to this matter is more than I could have ever hoped for. Never apologize for doing your job well, not even to me.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Do you bring news from our friend?”

A pause. “I do.”

In the face of such a weighted statement, it was as if a sense of dread-laden calm settled upon Regis. He only distantly felt the way Aulea’s hand tightened around his forearm, undoubtedly leaving bruises he would find should he examine the area later. Whatever Cor said next was lost on him as he gently transferred Noctis to her care and pressed a kiss to his forehead while he slept, blissfully oblivious. In something of a daze, he descended the steps like a criminal approaching his execution; the marshal ascended to the dais to meet him halfway with an envelope in hand. Regis could see even from a few feet away the stains of grease and oil at the corners, the way the paper was stiff and brittle with age. It seemed like it might crumble to dust as soon as it touched his fingers, just as his friendship with its likely sender had all those years ago.

A sender who was a man of few words. Or, in this case, only one.

_“Fine.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a note going forward, the standard typos to denote Cid and Cindy's accent will be present whenever we see them. As someone who gets extremely finicky about grammar being perfect in my writing, I just needed to point that out. :D 
> 
> I hope you're enjoying so far! To those of you who have taken the time to leave comments or kudos, I appreciate your feedback! Thank you!


	5. Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely floored by the response to this story. Never would I have imagined it would get the number of kudos it has in so short a time and all of your sweet comments. Thank you so much!

“Everything has been prepared according to your wishes, Your Majesty.”

“And our eyes in the field?”

“Already in position. They await your orders.”

The muscles in Regis’s jaw ached from gritting his teeth in a futile attempt to maintain his composure. Or was it from grinning and bearing it for the sake of his people for so long? It was growing difficult to tell. He knew what he would _like_ his orders to be, yet to issue them would mean turning his back on all that they had worked so hard to achieve, and his son would pay the price. It was nothing more than a momentary weakness, a passing thought that he would never give voice to. He felt ashamed of it all the same.

Turning to face Clarus seemed an insurmountable task at present, so he continued to stare out the window in the throne room as he had been for far too long already. He’d come to the realization hours ago, not that it made any difference with regards to his actions. Reminding himself of his responsibilities as both king and father offered neither the incentive nor motivation for him to abandon his lonely post. Today was the day that his heart was leaving him, after all. They hadn’t put it off for long, not when they knew that it would only be harder to let go if they allowed their emotions enough sway to postpone what must be done. Now was a time for action if they were to safeguard that which was most precious to them.

Every instant felt borrowed and transient, even in the minutes and hours that Regis spent telling himself that he should be grateful to have his family by his side no matter how long it lasted. The Citadel was not safe for Noctis anymore, if it had ever been at all. The potential hazards they had catalogued when considering how to raise a child within the walls of a heavily guarded fortress seemed a much greater danger than before. Weapons and their bearers were everywhere, and Regis eyed any blade from the heftiest greatsword to the shortest butter knife with the utmost suspicion now. Knowing that Noctis was healthy with Aulea or one of his nurses did little to ease his mind; holding him in his own arms only assuaged his concern so much. The shadows could be held at bay in the quiet moments when they were alone, the memories of his son’s fate hidden behind closed doors, but they returned full force the second he let his guard down. That grieving, panicked voice in his head would begin screaming at him, sounding the alarm: danger lurked just around the corner, waiting to snatch his child from him.

So, they had pressed ever onward even though they wanted nothing more than to delay the day of their parting for as long as possible. Never would he have expected that an hour could stretch so far yet feel so transitory in the grand scheme of the universe. Surely, there must have been more to do, more that would fill the time and postpone the inevitable? Had they forgotten something, some vital detail that eluded them in their haste?

With every question came the same answer: they were ready, much as they wished they weren’t. How ironic that all the preparations had gone smoothly for something that threatened to tear their hearts from their chests with as much care as a behemoth devouring a garula. Once the difficult matter of finding a host family had been settled, there was admittedly not a great deal more to be done. They had no doubt that all of Noctis’s needs would be met in Hammerhead; Cid had done well for himself, and Regis knew that while it would not be the same as what he would have liked for his son, his former friend could afford to provide a comfortable home. It almost made up for the fact that little could be packed, for they did not want anyone to recognize Noctis by the state of his belongings. One of Aulea’s retainers had ventured into the city to purchase clothing crafted for _common_ infants, ones who wouldn’t be dressed in the finest fabrics money could buy or clothing tailored to fit their precise measurements despite how quickly they would outgrow it all. Normal garments for a boy who would grow up in as normal a household as they could arrange.

Because it wasn’t simply a matter of fooling people into believing that he was a commoner—they would have to trick Noctis himself, as well.

The discussion had not been a pleasant one, and it had left him at odds with both his Shield and marshal alike. In their opinion, it was imperative that Noctis be made aware of his position as soon as was feasible. A prince was meant to rule, after all, and Cor was particularly insistent that being raised under the guardian Regis had chosen would set him back further than desired. Regis didn’t have to ask what he meant: Cid was uneducated, with an accent that had always made Cor shudder when he was young and less practiced at hiding his disdain. Admittedly, the thought of Noctis one day returning with the sort of drawl Regis remembered was…not ideal. Still, how could they expect a child to keep such a secret? Even if he did not _mean_ to tell, it might slip out in a burst of excitement as was common for little ones of a certain age. Regis was not willing to risk any otherwise avoidable mistakes, and when he had consulted Aulea, she had agreed with his decision.

There was no arguing the fact that Noctis did need to be at least somewhat prepared for his future role even in exile, however, so they had grudgingly taken a few steps towards that end. They were minor, nor would he approve of anything that was _remotely_ likely to reveal his son’s identity before the time was right. Lessons in diplomacy and political literacy could be taught at any point; Noctis would need to still be alive (or, more accurately, _awake_ ) to learn them. Their utmost priority remained clear.

By the time plans had been solidified and all was made ready, the two days since Cor’s return had flown by with such haste that Regis hardly recalled what had occurred in those wasted hours. His council meetings had gone on without his attention; all he remembered was the droning of voices and shuffling of paper. Decisions were reached with little input from him, yet each of his absentminded signatures brought that increasingly familiar feeling of inadequacy ever nearer. All of it seemed so useless and unimportant in the face of this looming deadline. His moments of peace grew fewer until only having his son in his arms could calm his nerves, as had been the case in the wake of the christening. 

That was what he wanted right now: to be holding Noctis, rocking him to sleep, and thinking of nothing more than the next time he’d wake.

He couldn’t. He hadn’t even been able to look at his baby boy that morning when he’d woken up with tears in his eyes. Neither he nor Aulea had thought they would sleep the night before, but he must have dozed off at some point. The entire evening, they’d been at Noctis’s side, passing him between them every few minutes as though they might forget what it felt like to carry him. Perhaps they would; maybe there was no avoiding that particular brand of misery. For just one more night, though, they had done everything they could to preserve the memory and layer it beneath glass so that nothing could disturb its absolute perfection in their hearts.

Then Regis had woken up. His son and his wife had been sleeping peacefully.

His heart was a bloody mess on the floor.

That was how he found his way here, to the one place that held the most comfort for him in the past—the place where he was supposed to be _powerful_. That sensation had evaporated, however, leaving behind nothing more than an empty room with a cold stone throne that seemed to laugh at his impotence. Admittedly, he was rather surprised that Aulea hadn’t sought him out before now. He could only assume that she knew he needed this time to grieve in private, for they would spend the next twenty years doing so together. As much as his hands itched to brush the hair from his son’s face or tickle the soles of those tiny feet in these final, fleeting hours, his legs refused to move. It seemed that all he could do was stand at this window, watching the sun as it flickered in and out of existence between the nearly overcast clouds on its way towards the horizon. Dusk would come soon, and with it, the moment he’d been dreading for weeks. He needed to move—he needed to find Aulea and Noctis.

Yet here he stood.

At least Clarus wouldn’t let him wallow for too long. He could always trust his Shield to do that much.

“Is there any other duty you require of me, Your Majesty?”

Regis shook his head. “No, that will be all. Thank you, Clarus.”

“Good.”

Heavy footsteps approached, and he glanced briefly over his shoulder to see his Shield—no, his _friend_ ascending the steps to stand at his side. They observed the city in companionable, if strained, silence for long enough that Regis began to think that he had nothing left to say. That, however, would have been quite out of character.

“The queen is waiting for you in your chambers with Noctis,” Clarus eventually informed him, his voice much softer now that they weren’t adhering to their roles as monarch and Shield. “Cor is standing watch over them for now. He’s stationed most of the Crownsguard throughout the city to ensure his passage is secure.”

“And the Glaive?”

“Their eyes are on the border as we discussed.”

Regis nodded stiffly. Everything was indeed ready, then. The assurance of such precaution didn’t assuage so much as an ounce of his trepidation.

It certainly didn’t help that Clarus hesitated uneasily before he added, “Drautos is growing impatient.”

“Drautos is _always_ impatient,” he sighed in exasperation. Titus Drautos was a worthy captain and more than capable of leading the Kingsglaive, but he was voracious in a way that Cor never was. Regis knew which he preferred. “What matter has him so restless this time?”

“He wishes to know why details of the prince’s location weren’t disclosed to him.”

Ah, he should have guessed that was the problem. At his raised eyebrow, Clarus shook his head with obvious irritation.

“I told him that the nature of the prince’s departure was only to be discussed with a select few—“

“To which he replied that he has earned the right to be counted amongst them,” Regis finished for him, smirking humorlessly when Clarus nodded in confirmation. In a world that had grown so unpredictable of late, perhaps he should have found comfort in the ease with which he was able to read his captain’s ire. That did not make it any more tolerable.

“I told him that arguing the decision of his monarch was tantamount to insubordination,” grumbled Clarus.

Regis hummed. “Given the circumstances, it’s tantamount to _treason_.”

“I informed him of that, as well.”

“Yet he persisted?”

“He did.”

“And what,” Regis ground out through gritted teeth, “would he have me do? Release this information to him? I might as well tell the entire Kingsglaive, for that matter. Perhaps then the Crownsguard should be alerted and, of course, everyone else in the Citadel. The more people who are aware of Noctis’s whereabouts, the greater the danger that he will be found by our enemies. Drautos would be a fool not to know that.”

Sighing, Clarus murmured, “You’ve not said a word I have not already told him.”

It must have been the stress of the day—the _month_ , in truth—finally reaching its zenith, because that statement alone sent poison coursing through Regis’s veins. The glare he turned on his Shield was deadly.

“He knows this, yet he would put Noctis, _his future king_ , at risk purely for the sake of his own pride.”

Clarus didn’t have an answer for that, but Regis didn’t require one. They both knew what it was. An accomplished, invaluable captain Drautos might be, yet he was a man who was assured of his own value and would fight anyone who said differently. Even in the early days of his tenure, when border skirmishes with the empire were more common, he felt little compunction about disagreeing openly with Regis’s selected courses of action. Many a strategy briefing would be interrupted by Drautos’s remarks on the supposed impotence of one of his own plans, or that of his most experienced and knowledgeable advisors. Those statements were always quelled by Regis’s order to stand down and a swift reminder that he was not speaking to any mere soldier, but to his monarch. Over time, those outbursts had grown fewer, but Regis could see in his eyes that he still harbored the same contrary position on most issues. His sole salvation was that his loyalty had never been called into question despite his startling disregard for the chain of command. Fortunately, his duty as the head of the Kingsglaive meant that his opinion mattered little in most situations. Regis was free to ignore the majority of his ideas and only favor the ones applicable to the circumstances that _actually_ fell under his purview.

This was _not_ one of them.

Returning his attention to the window, Regis drew in a deep breath and held it for a moment. In a way, he might have owed Drautos some small measure of gratitude. If nothing else, he had justified Regis’s decision to maintain no records of Noctis’s whereabouts, preferring to take only a few into his personal confidence. If a man tasked with guarding the royal family could be so concerned with his own ego as to place a child in danger in order to stroke it, he didn’t dare to wonder how little would prompt one to sell such secrets to those who would have little incentive to protect them.

He would not let this stand. For the last month, he had been a grieving father—but he had also been king. On his own two feet, he would walk through the gates of hell itself before he would allow his own appointee such latitude of expression.

When he spoke, it was with the careful cadence of a man about to plunge over the brink of a rage there was no returning from. Every syllable was enunciated sharply so that there would be no mistaking his meaning when he ordered, “When Captain Drautos returns from his assignment at the West Gate, you will tell him that his request for a briefing has been denied. The reason is that secrecy is imperative to the continued safety of the crown prince of Lucis. And,” he added, his tone lowering dangerously, “should he find fault with any of these decrees, he can make the necessary arrangements to vacate his station.”

A pause. “Are you certain that is wise, Regis?”

“I am certain that Captain Drautos needs to remember his place,” he replied, immediate and harsher than he’d intended. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Clarus hesitate a moment before nodding.

“It shall be done.”

Heaving a tremulous sigh, Regis nodded. “Thank you, Clarus.”

And just like that, the energy and resolve that had erupted within him in light of Drautos’s defiance began to leak away, reminding him as always that his temper could not repair everything. Maintaining the fragile balance between monarch and subordinates was but a small part of the troubles he faced, easily fixed despite the frustration it initiated. Some well-placed anger could bring men to their knees and force them to obey his commands, but the enemy would not be so accommodating. Once he received word that Noctis was safely settled in Hammerhead, he would have to return to the daily struggle against Niflheim, against an emperor whose hatred of Lucis was undoubtedly fueled further by the traitorous mage he had employed. Constant and inescapable preparation would replace the hours he had reserved for holding his child at night, all in the hopes that Noctis would return to Insomnia in a world where the threat of imperial domination was no more. The mere thought of it was exhausting.

Clarus’s hand was on his shoulder in the same moment that Regis dropped his face into his hands, a firm and grounding force when it felt like the world was ready to sweep him away on the breeze.

“It’s going to be all right, Regis.”

“You cannot know that.” His voice was muffled through his fingers, but his Shield heard it anyway. His hand squeezed that much tighter.

“I cannot,” Clarus admitted remorsefully, “but I can swear to you that I will do everything in my power to make it so. Ardyn may have won the battle, but he will not win the war. If it takes until my dying breath, I will guarantee that to my king and my friend.”

Words failed him, and Regis could only nod in miserable acknowledgement. A part of him desperately wished to believe that what his Shield said was true, that they could so easily guard Noctis once he was outside the walls that had utterly neglected to protect him. He knew that it was impossible, though. He knew that no matter how much he might desire otherwise, once his son was out of his sight, he would be just as useless as the day Ardyn had laid the foundations for Noctis’s demise to begin with.

But he had today—what was left of it.

Clarus was steering him down the stairs towards the door before he truly registered that they were moving. Each stride seemed to cost him a little more of his composure until he wasn’t sure how he hadn’t broken down in the middle of the corridor yet. It was nearly time: the sun was sitting much lower in the sky now, and shadows were beginning to creep out of the corners to swallow the light. As they reached the elevator and Clarus pressed the call button, Regis distantly wondered if the monsters that haunted his nightmares might have reached out of the darkness for him if not for the steady hand that still rooted him to the spot. Instead they chose only to target his mind.

Where the question came from, he would never know, but his lips moved to echo Clarus’s own words nevertheless: “Twenty years is…not such a long time. Is it?"

His Shield didn’t answer immediately, maneuvering Regis around until they were looking directly at one another the way they hadn’t since their conversation began. With a firm nod and certain gaze, Clarus replied, “Not such a long time at all.”

 

***

 

They waited for the cover of nightfall. As far as anyone in the city knew, there was nothing at all amiss. Establishments remained open; the same lively clamor of movement in the streets mingled with the sounds of cars buzzing past. People paid little attention to the guards stationed at intervals between the Citadel and the gates at the border of Insomnia because they had no idea that they were there. Uniforms had been abandoned in favor of street clothes, ones that would not identify them in a crowd as being connected to the royal family. Per Regis’s plan, the outside observer would have no reason to suspect that anything untoward was happening. The Kingsglaive was at the gate and the rulers of their nation were at the Citadel, right where they were all meant to be.

But not for long.

As the clock was striking midnight, Regis and Aulea hastened down the steps to the courtyard with none but Cor and Clarus in tow. No one else had been allowed to witness the departure of their prince, and most of the building had been emptied anyway with the guards and Glaives positioned elsewhere. Regis couldn’t help but think that perhaps it was only fitting: if these were to be the last moments he would spend in the presence of his son, he would prefer to do so with as much privacy as possible.

For the first time in his short life, Noctis was dressed in plain clothes. They had felt uncomfortable to Regis’s fingers when he wrapped him in the comparatively rough fabric, so used to fine silks and linens that anything less seemed unfit for his child to wear. Aulea, bravely soldiering through her unshed tears, had laughed wetly at his grumbling and finished the process for him. He could never repay her for allowing him the honor and privilege of carrying their son from their room for the last time, not when it meant getting to smile into those sharp blue eyes as they grew drowsy and eventually slid closed.

Cor and Clarus were kind enough to give them the space they needed to say their final goodbyes, though they would be long forgotten by the time they greeted their son again. Now that they were here, ready to dive into the abyss fate had laid before them, Aulea didn’t bother to restrain her grief. Her tears fell silently, streaking down her cheeks as she leaned forward to kiss Noctis’s forehead. She whispered something Regis couldn’t hear, but he knew whatever it was had to be words of her undying love. After all, that was what he did, as well.

Then, in a series of seconds that felt like both an eternity and nowhere near enough, Noctis was settled into a covered carrier that would look to anyone else like a common rucksack. Clarus was the one to strap him securely to Cor’s back, his hands gentle where Regis’s would have shaken enough to wake Noctis from his slumber. They simply felt too empty now.

Perhaps it was reckless, nothing more than a misguided act of sentiment that would bring the entire endeavor to naught, but there were two keepsakes Regis and Aulea were determined Noctis would take with him into exile. The first was already settled inside the carrier, soft and familiar and hopefully a comfort when he woke: the blue Carbuncle toy that had immediately been his favorite. They had purchased it a few days before the christening, having had it commissioned from one of the finest toymakers in Lucis. At the time, they had thought that it was merely symbolic—Carbuncle was the Dream Guardian, and as such, it was only fitting that any comfort object to guard Noctis against bad dreams took his shape.

This toy was special, though; Regis had known the moment he laid eyes on it. Noctis had instantly taken a liking to the little blue fox, which was a bit larger than him but undoubtedly wouldn’t remain so for long. No one outside of their family (and perhaps his accountant, who had been vexed at the admittedly exorbitant cost of acquiring a custom toy for a baby) would recognize it, and so they decided it could go with Noctis. The rest of his belongings he would outgrow many years before he returned, but they had been left in the chambers that were to be his regardless. Perhaps he would have use for them one day when he had children of his own.

The other token was admittedly more revealing, which was why it was leaving the Citadel in a sealed envelope with strict instructions attached. Some, like his father, would have called it a rite of passage; others, nothing more than an heirloom. Regis, on the other hand, considered it a sort of door—a door that would hopefully open for his son one day when the time was right.

“Give these directly to Cid,” he murmured as he handed off the precious envelope and another, lighter one to Cor for safekeeping. “He will know what to do.”

Cor slipped both into the inner pocket of his jacket with a nod, opening his mouth to reply. Whatever he meant to say was lost before he could form the words, however. His eyes slipped over Regis’s shoulder, widened suddenly, and then his hand was drawing the katana strapped to his side. Clarus followed suit not a moment later, pushing Regis and Aulea behind the two of them. The incongruity of the situation struck Regis with sudden force: he hadn’t thought to bring a weapon, hadn’t thought that he _needed_ one for this.

As it happened, he didn’t. None of them did, because the figure that emerged from the shadows meant them no harm. Her presence was admittedly a shock, but not a _threat_. Regis motioned for the others to lower their weapons before stepping forward, bowing his head.

“Lady Gentiana. To what do we owe the honor of your presence?”

The Messenger did not open her eyes, yet she seemed to glide forward with all the grace of a bird in flight. “O king of Lucis, I come at the behest of the Oracle.”

Frowning, Regis shook his head and repeated blankly, “The Oracle?”

“The young Oracle that will be,” she clarified calmly, as if the idea that a child could command such power was a mundane occurrence. For his part, Regis couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it.

“Lunafreya, you mean?”

“I do.”

“She is but a child.”

Gentiana smiled kindly, tilting her head to the side. “A child the young Oracle may be in the years of men, but her heart is older than most. To me she called, and to you she sent me.”

“For what purpose?” asked Aulea. He hadn’t realized she’d stepped up beside him until she was clutching his arm with deceptive strength. If Gentiana sensed their unease, she offered no rebuke.

“To bestow our protection upon the prince of Lucis the way her mother would have desired.”

That gave Regis pause. Their protection? Carbuncle had been painfully and inescapably clear: there was no way for any mage to undo the acts of another. Ordinarily, that would be no issue as mages were meant only to enact the will of the gods. In this particular situation, matters were more complicated. What protection could the Astrals offer that would be of any more use than that which had already been employed by Regis’s authority?

None of those questions passed his lips. He wished that they would, that he could somehow locate the words, but it was futile. A lump of _hope_ had risen in his throat to block the bitter taste of skepticism, and it refused to let him voice his thoughts until Gentiana had done as promised.

So, he simply watched her approach in anxious silence. She paid the rest of them little mind and circled around their group until she was within an arm’s breadth of where Noctis was settled in his carrier, still fast asleep. As though sensing his presence, Gentiana’s eyes finally opened to observe him with a calm sort of fascination. If he didn’t know any better, Regis would have thought that infants were a foreign entity to her, but she had surely traveled the world and seen so many children that one would hardly stand out from the rest. With Noctis, however, there was a tinge of sadness in her expression. It flashed through her eyes only for a moment before vanishing beneath the even façade that made Gentiana’s aura as inscrutable as her words.

With one finger, she reached out and tapped Noctis’s forehead lightly. Regis’s first instinct was to remind her that he was asleep and not to wake him, but the brilliant shower of glitter that sparked at the contact rendered him speechless. Aulea’s grip around his arm tightened until he could only just feel his fingers, both of them watching in awe as the tiny pinpricks of light danced in the air and were gone. Not once during the exchange did Noctis stir.

“What was that?” asked Clarus warily when the Messenger turned back to them. Fortunately, Gentiana appeared to take no offense at his brusque and distrustful tone.

“All that I can offer,” she answered vaguely. Clarus narrowed his eyes, but he couldn’t prompt her for more information since she pressed on herself, “From this day, the prince of Lucis will be invisible to the gaze that seeks his demise. In the light he will abide, hidden from the lurking shadow.”

“Ardyn, you mean?” demanded Regis, his desperation palpable now that his words had been released.

Gentiana nodded. “The Accursed will seek him, but there shall be naught to find. Shielded stands the prince from unfriendly eyes.”

A whisper of a prayer reached his ears as Aulea buried her face against his shoulder, his arm coming to rest around her seemingly of its own accord. If what Gentiana said was true, then they were not facing a reprieve from sending Noctis away—far from it. This changed nothing. All it did was provide them the peace of knowing that besides the curse still gripping his son’s very soul, the monster that had cast it could do no more to hurt him.

The reassurance should have removed a fraction of the weight from his shoulders, yet Regis was initially unsure of what to feel: relief, comfort, inadequacy once again? Ultimately, he settled on the former. It was not his place to begrudge others what they willingly gave simply because it was not something that he could offer to his son on his own.

“We thank you,” he breathed, head inclined. “I don’t know how we can ever repay your kindness.”

“The will of the gods is not meant to be repaid,” she chided him gently. Once he nodded his understanding, her expression shifted to something more somber and the slight smile melted from her lips like ice into the sea. “But be forewarned, o king: the power of the Accursed is great. Protected from the shadows though the prince may be, to guard against all ills is not possible. Take heed.”

Disappointing, yet not unsurprising. When he nodded again and lifted his gaze, it was to see Gentiana stepping away from them, her eyes closed once more. Their business was apparently concluded.

With that, there was a change in the air, or maybe it was just in Regis. Suddenly, there was nothing more to be done. Gentiana had given them this one parting gift, setting the tone for the end: morose, yet hopeful.

Indeed, that may have been where he had gone wrong all this time: believing this moment to be the _end_. The knowledge that his son would be returning home one day, however far off that might be, hadn’t been enough to keep him from viewing this night with an air of finality. It wasn’t the end, though—it was the _beginning_. They would meet again. Regis knew without a shadow of a doubt that he, Aulea, and all of their trusted friends and retainers would do anything in their power to see to it that Noctis came back to them; even the Astrals willed it. This was goodbye, yes, but it was not over. Twenty years…was not such a long time.

Regis would keep reminding himself of that, repeating it as a mantra while Cor sheathed his katana and Clarus covered Noctis’s carrier so that he was invisible to the outside world. He whispered it into Aulea’s hair as she curled into his chest and they watched one of the few men he trusted implicitly leave the Citadel with their child. And as they vanished into the night, swallowed up by darkness and scores of people who didn’t have to feel this pain, he uttered the last words his own father had said in the hopes that they would somehow mean something for Noctis just as they had for him.

“Walk tall, my son.”


	6. The Frog Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ready for something a little different? I really hope you like it!

“Noctis! Get’cher a—“

“Paw-paw! You said you weren’t gonna cuss no more!"

“Aw, for Pete’s…” A sigh. “Get’cher _butt_ outta that bed. Day’s a-wastin’!”

Whining, Noctis snuggled closer to Carbuncle and buried his face in fuzzy blue fur. He didn’t want to get up—he was _warm_. Uncle Cid always kept their apartment cold at night because he said that made it _easier to sleep_ , but dozing off was so hard when Noctis was constantly shivering under the covers. Plus, the floor would be freezing when he woke up in the morning, which didn’t exactly give him a reason to get out of bed. His clothes were all the way across the room where Cindy laid them out for him every night, so dressing was the worst kind of torture.

But if he didn’t get up now, someone would come in and make him. Last time Noctis had tried to sleep in when he wasn’t supposed to, Uncle Cid tickled him until he couldn’t breathe much less go back to bed. After that, it really wasn’t worth pretending anymore; he’d just get bored when he was wide awake. Still, getting up was such a _pain_.

He tried not to complain _too_ much when Uncle Cid woke him, though. The alternative never worked out very well: Cindy usually just pushed him off the mattress, and he’d find himself on the floor with all his blankets pooled around him. He wouldn’t mind most of the time, only Carbuncle would get upset since he’d always hit the nightstand on the way down. Then it was even _harder_ to leave him in Noctis’s room all day when he felt guilty for not catching him.

So, okay, maybe he’d just go ahead and get up. He was hungry anyway.

“Wait here,” he whispered, propping Carbuncle up against his pillow and tucking him in. One of them should get to be comfortable. “I’ll be right back!”

This was the hardest part, but Noctis was getting good at making it from his bed to the dresser on the other side of the room in as few steps as possible. Cindy told him all the time that he should wear socks at night if his feet got cold, but they _didn’t_ until they touched the floor, so that was a stupid idea. Besides, his socks were always dirty long before he went to bed. It would be gross to sleep in them when they were like that, and he didn’t want his uncle to have to clean the stains. So, he didn’t bother and got creative instead. It wasn’t like his room was very big, which definitely made things easier. Living in an apartment over the garage meant there wasn’t a whole lot of space anywhere, but Noctis didn’t mind. He liked getting to look out his tiny window and examine the different cars his uncle kept in the lot below. From there, he could also see all the way to the mountains—that made everything seem bigger, although he knew it wasn’t.

Uncle Cid could get from one side of his room to the other in five steps. (He’d counted!) However, Noctis was so short that it felt like much farther. There wasn’t even any furniture he could climb on to avoid touching the floor, either—Cindy had a desk in her room, but Noctis just had his bed, nightstand, and dresser. It didn’t really bother him, not when it meant more room to play or for the clothes that occasionally piled up in places when he wasn’t paying attention. In the mornings, though, he wished for the cool rolling chair she let him spin around in sometimes while she was busy with other things. Then he wouldn’t have to stand on the edge of his mattress and jump as far as he could from the bed.

As always, he landed just shy of his target with a light _thump_ , wincing as the cold seeped right up into his knees. His skin had barely made contact with the floor before he was prancing the last few steps to safety: the fuzzy, car-shaped rug in front of his dresser.

Noctis sighed in relief, squishing his toes into the soft material as he slid open the top drawer to retrieve the outfit Cindy had chosen for him. Uncle Cid never let him pick out his own clothes, which was completely unfair. If he asked why, his uncle would simply laugh and tell a story about the one time he _had_ , which Noctis couldn’t remember. Apparently, he’d decided that a bright yellow chocobo shirt and one of Cindy’s few skirts looked good together. He would have accused him of lying, but Uncle Cid said he had _pictures_ , and he really didn’t want to see those. So, he merely grumbled idly about it and occasionally reminded his uncle that he wasn’t a baby anymore—he was _five years old_ , practically a grown-up, so choosing his own outfits should be _easy_. It never made any difference, though, and he got whatever Cindy thought would work.

Of course, it didn’t really matter what she preferred: most of his clothes were black anyway. Noctis had noticed it for the first time when he saw a customer drive off with their kids, both dressed in colorful outfits that he was a little jealous of. Uncle Cid just told him black didn’t stain as easily, and with all the dirty things around the garage that Noctis could (and frequently _did_ ) get into, it was better to be safe than sorry.

That was one reason why Carbuncle usually didn’t come outside with him—he hated how disgusting it was down there. Whenever Noctis dragged him along to the diner or convenience store, his fur would be brown with all the dust in the air by the time they got back. Then Uncle Cid would take him away to wash him, and even though he smelled good afterward, Noctis didn’t like spending a couple of hours sitting on top of the machine waiting for it to stop spinning.

Which was why he paused when he glanced over to see Carbuncle staring at him so sadly, still tucked half under the covers.

“I’ll be back,” Noctis tried to reassure him.

His expression didn’t change.

Huffing, Noctis pulled on his sneakers before diving onto the bed and hugging Carbuncle tight. “It’s just gonna be a few minutes.”

The way his fuzzy nose was poking into Noctis’s cheek told him that didn’t help even a little bit. Carbuncle didn’t like being left all by himself, even if needing a bath wasn’t fun either. Maybe they could compromise. Uncle Cid wouldn’t mind if he had breakfast with them, right?

“Okay,” he mumbled, pecking a kiss to his clingy toy’s snout. “You win.”

That cheered Carbuncle right up, and Noctis propped him over his shoulder with a grin as he hurried to the door. He knew he didn’t need to rush; they couldn’t think he was still sleeping after he’d made all that noise just to get dressed. It wouldn’t be nice to keep them waiting, though. Uncle Cid got really grumpy when he was hungry.

So, he stopped in the bathroom to quickly brush his teeth (he may have forgotten the toothpaste— _oops_ ) before darting into the kitchen. It, too, was small, but they didn’t need much. As long as they could open the refrigerator and sit at the table, that was more than enough. Cindy brought Uncle Cid’s meals to him in the garage since he always had work to keep him busy, so it was just the two of them most days anyway. Noctis would never say anything about it, but he was pretty sure his uncle didn’t actually know how to cook. He would make toast or cereal sometimes, and it always tasted all right; anything harder than that, though, they got from the diner. It was boring to eat the same stuff from Takka’s over and over again, but the food was still good, so Noctis didn’t complain.

“Well, it’s about time,” snorted Uncle Cid, peering up at him from where he’d been watching Cindy work on… _something_ at the table. Noctis could never tell—it all just looked like metal to him. “If you’re gonna start primpin’, I’m gonna have to wake you up earlier.”

Cindy giggled, and Noctis shot her his best glare as he plopped down in his seat and nodded pointedly at his companion. “Carbuncle was lonely.”

Nodding slowly, Uncle Cid commiserated, “Was he, now? Well, that’s a right shame.”

“Uh huh,” he agreed, glad that they were on the same page. “Can he have breakfast with us?”

“’S gonna be pretty hard t’have breakfast when ain’t nobody gone to pick it up yet,” mused his uncle with a finger raised to his chin. “Now, I wonder who might like to do us all a favor a—“

Noctis was already on his feet, one hand latching onto Uncle Cid’s sleeve while he hopped up and down. “Ooh, me me _me_! I can do it!”

His uncle burst out laughing and put a hand on his head to still his bouncing. “All right, all _right_. I don’t see nobody arguin’ with you.”

“Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air, but his triumph was cut short when Uncle Cid ruffled his hair the way he _knew_ Noctis hated. “Aww, quit!”

“Hey, now, I taught you how to brush this hair,” he replied gruffly, grimacing when he noticed that Noctis hadn’t really perfected doing so on his own _every single day_ yet. He kindly didn’t mention it, though. “I got special priv’leges.”

Frowning, Noctis asked, “What’s that?”

“Means _I_ can do stuff you li’l rascals can’t.”

Uncle Cid gave his hair one last tousle for good measure before relaxing back in his seat. That wasn’t why Noctis was pouting, though.

“ _I_ want special pri…priv…” Folding his arms in frustration, he gave up and left it at, “ _that_.”

“The hell yo—“

“Paw-paw!” Cindy glanced up from her _whatever_ with a pointed glare, to which Uncle Cid rolled his eyes almost all the way back in response.

“The _heck_ you talkin’ ‘bout, boy?” he amended. Noctis only whined a _little_ when his uncle picked him up and deposited him in his lap. “You got plenny’a special priv’leges already.”

“I do?!” he exclaimed, irritation immediately forgotten.

“’Course you do.”

“Like what?”

“You go get breakfast all by yourself, don’tcha?”

Noctis’s face scrunched up. _That_ didn’t sound like it was something special. “ _You_ can do that. Or Cindy.”

“Maybe, but _you_ do it best,” Uncle Cid whispered loudly enough that he obviously wasn’t trying to hide it, jostling Noctis lightly on his knee.

He couldn’t help giggling at that, especially when his uncle emphasized his praise with a quick tickle to his side. There wasn’t a _best_ way to go pick up breakfast—he knew that. If it was a special thing that not everybody got to do, though, he wouldn’t be upset about it.

Point made, Uncle Cid hauled him up and set him back on his feet again. “A’right, then, you’d best be off. Takka probably run outta food while we been sittin’ here yappin’.”

“Okay!” Noctis whirled around, grabbed Carbuncle by the paw, and ran for the door. It was a pretty good try, all things considered; he nearly had his hand around the knob when Uncle Cid’s voice stopped him short.

“Ah ah, you leave him here,” he berated him, amusement lacing his tone.

Throwing on his best begging expression, Noctis turned back around and leveled his uncle with a wide-eyed, innocent gaze. “But I—“

“Nope, no can do.”

“But he can help!” If his uncle’s raised eyebrow was anything to go by, he definitely didn’t believe that. So, Noctis shuffled his feet and hugged Carbuncle a little closer to his chest as he blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “He can hold the bag.”

“Oh, he can, can ‘e?” Uncle Cid snorted.

“Uh huh.”

“Scrawny li’l thing like ‘im? I dunno…”

“ _Pleeeeease_!” whined Noctis, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet a couple of times.

Sighing, his uncle looked like he was _this_ close to giving in for a fraction of a second, but no such luck. Instead he got up with a groan and came to kneel in front of Noctis; his bones popped every step of the way.

“Tell you what. You let Carbuncle stay ‘n’ keep us company“—he held up a hand before Noctis could argue—“and I _might_ consider lettin’ you take ‘im with you to school.”

School? His uncle _never_ let him take toys to school! Okay, now _that_ was a pretty sweet tradeoff! Even Carbuncle had to grudgingly agree.

“Really?!”

Uncle Cid lifted his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug but didn’t look as serious as he was going for when he replied, “I said _might_. Don’t got no time for laundry today, though, so you’re gonna have to keep ‘im clean yourself. Deal?”

“Deal!” exclaimed Noctis. He eagerly shook his uncle’s proffered hand with a grin as the latter gently pulled Carbuncle out of his grasp.

“A’right, then. You go on, now. Cindy ‘n’ I’ll be waitin’ for you.”

He hardly had to tell Noctis twice—he was already halfway out the door by the time Uncle Cid finished his sentence. The faster he got to Takka’s and retrieved their breakfast, the quicker he could return to get Carbuncle ready for school. Well, they _called_ it school, but Uncle Cid said it was different from the way most kids were educated. It was all Noctis had ever known, though, and he was liking his first year anyway.

For such a popular outpost, Hammerhead was too small to have a lot of the things most bigger cities did. Not that Noctis had ever _been_ to any bigger cities, of course. So many people drove through on their way to other places that he heard stories about stuff he could only imagine. All of it sounded so cool—restaurants (more than just one), toy stores, places where you could buy lots of different types of clothes. There were even things called _arcades_ , where they had all sorts of video games; winning meant that you would get prizes to take home with you. They didn’t have a television, but when he was done with all of his chores, Uncle Cid would let him go to Takka’s and play on the console they kept behind the counter if it wasn’t too busy. Usually the employees would play with him, and he was getting pretty good at beating them. If he could go to an actual arcade, he was positive he’d win _all_ the prizes.

That wasn’t going to happen, though, at least not anytime soon. There was too much to do around the garage for Uncle Cid to just take them somewhere else. So, Noctis entertained himself with whatever he could find around Hammerhead. He never got in _trouble_ , per se, but people who were around often enough definitely knew his name.

Like the hunters! They were so awesome. Most of them came down from Lestallum and Meldacio (wherever _that_ was) to get their cars tuned up; his uncle’s garage was apparently kind of famous around Lucis. That meant Noctis got to watch them roll in with their huge trucks, the beds packed full of pelts and tusks from animals he’d never seen in any of his books. Whenever he found something new in their cargo, his mouth would drop open in amazement. There weren’t very many wild animals around Hammerhead, with the exception of a few stray dogs and cats that wandered in sometimes, so exploring anything they brought back en route to their headquarters was like an adventure. When the hunters had time—and if their spoils weren’t too dangerous—they’d pick him up and let him poke around in the trucks for a while. He’d gotten to see and feel so many cool things, and they’d even let him keep a broken pocket watch he’d found that must have gotten swept up with the rest by mistake. Uncle Cid had taken one look at it and told him that there was no way they’d be able to fix it, but Noctis didn’t care. It was still neat, so he had it hanging on a hook in his room. Some nights, he’d stare at it while trying to fall asleep and dream of all the adventures he could be having to discover more stuff like that.

Of course, there were other things about the hunters that _weren’t_ so great. Sometimes one of them would be hurt, or Noctis would see a red-stained, lumpy sheet in the back of a truck that Uncle Cid wouldn’t let him go anywhere near. There had been one occasion when he was rummaging through their finds and caught a glimpse of something oddly _Carbuncle_ -like in shape. He hadn’t meant to start crying—he wasn’t a _baby_ , after all—but the tears were flowing almost before he recognized what he’d seen. After that, the hunters were a little more careful about letting him get too close to some of the things they brought back, reassuring him that he could take a look when he got older.

Today, there were no trucks outside when he burst through the garage door and ran towards Takka’s. Noctis tried not to feel too disappointed about that: if he had school, he couldn’t talk to them for long anyway. It was always more fun when they came on his days off—then he could hang out with them for as long as he wanted, or until Uncle Cid told him it was time for dinner. Whichever came first.

Still, he paused to wave at the guy working in the convenience store this morning (it felt like there was always someone new every time he looked, so he kept forgetting their names) and grinned when a couple of the regulars at Takka’s called out a greeting. He didn’t have a chance to stop and say hi to them, though, because he’d totally forgotten it was Tuesday!

Tuesdays were one of the best days of the week, in Noctis’s opinion—so were Thursdays and weekends. Those were the days when he could wander into the diner and find Nyx behind the counter, preparing the morning’s orders.

Nyx was his best friend. Or, _kind of_. Carbuncle was his _best_ best friend—Nyx was his _next_ best friend. Cindy was great and all, but she was his cousin and a girl. All she wanted to do was work in the garage and figure out how to fix cars with Uncle Cid; she didn’t play with him anymore unless she was either really in the mood or he annoyed her long enough. Eventually, when following her around the apartment repeating everything she said got old, he’d end up by himself.

That was why Nyx was such a good friend: he _never_ got tired of Noctis. No matter what—if he was happy or sad or bored or excited or any combination of emotions—he knew Nyx would be there for him. Noctis could come running in the door anytime, and there would be a huge smile (and maybe some candy) waiting for him every time.

Today was no different.

“Well, look who it is!” grinned Nyx as he rounded the counter, glancing up from the dough he was rolling out for meat pies. “Thought you were going to leave me hanging today.”

Noctis slapped his hand in a high five when he offered it, snickering at the puff of flour that erupted on contact. “Sorry. Carbuncle was sad because Uncle Cid wanted him to stay home.”

“He was?” sighed Nyx sympathetically.

“Yeah. But he said I could take him to school!” Noctis was quick to add. He didn’t like making Nyx sad.

Sure enough, he brightened up immediately. “ _That’s_ cool. He doesn’t usually get to come with you, right?”

“Nuh-uh, I go by myself.” He couldn’t help feeling just a _tiny_ bit proud of that.

“Pretty big deal there, little man!”

“Yeah!”

“And talk about luck,” Nyx continued as he brushed his hands off on the towel shoved into the waistband of his apron. A second later, he’d swept Noctis off the floor and sat him down on the counter beside where he was working. “You get to hang out here first. Not saying I’m cooler than Carbuncle or anything, but I think I do all right.”

Noctis didn’t really know how to respond to that, so he just laughed. Yeah, Nyx was great, but it would be a betrayal of the absolute highest degree to say he had anything on Carbuncle. At least he knew it—that meant Noctis didn’t have to tell him.

Letting the subject drop, Nyx leaned his palms against the counter on either side of him and asked, “So, what do you think we should make old man Cid for breakfast today?”

“Mm…” Noctis pretended to think about it, putting a finger up to his chin the way his uncle always did when he was trying to be funny. “Pancakes!”

“Pancakes? You got it!”

While Nyx reached for a bowl and a bag of flour, Noctis tugged lightly on his sleeve and whispered, “Can you put chocolate in them?”

His friend’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Chocolate?” he repeated in the same tone. “Your uncle would have my ass if I got you all sugared up before school.”

Noctis frowned. Uncle Cid would have his… _huh_?

Seeming to realize he wasn’t following at _all_ , Nyx corrected himself, “Don’t think he’d like it too much.”

_Aw, man…_

“Oh…”

A flour-covered finger poked his nose, and Noctis giggled despite himself as he wiped the residue off on his arm. When he looked up again from where his gaze had fallen to the floor in disappointment, Nyx was wearing a sneaky smirk and holding a finger to his lips.

“But what the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

“Yeah!” Noctis agreed in little more than an excited murmur while Nyx got to work.

As much as Noctis hated getting up in the morning, this was one of the best things about waking up in time for breakfast, even if Carbuncle couldn’t be here to enjoy it too. Nyx was a really good cook, but he also liked to talk at the same time. He’d ask Noctis all kinds of questions about what he’d done the day before when they didn’t see each other, or they’d go over the last thing he learned in school. It was all thanks to Nyx that he’d memorized his numbers above ten! (He still thought _one-teen_ made a lot more sense than _eleven_ , thank you very much.) Reading remained a struggle for him, though; it wasn’t that he was _bad_ at it, just that he kept confusing different letters that the alphabet said sounded one way when they didn’t. So, despite how frustrated it made him, Nyx always handed him a recipe so Noctis could try to read off what came next while he cooked. The food came out perfect anyway because he knew the instructions by heart, but it still gave Noctis a sense of satisfaction when he didn’t mess up too badly.

The time never failed to fly by when he was with Nyx, and since he was running later than usual today, they didn’t get to talk as much as he would have liked. Getting to do their secret handshake with a bag of chocolate chip pancakes in one hand, however? That made all the difference.

 

***

 

According to Uncle Cid, _schools_ were big buildings where lots of kids went to learn stuff. There would be a teacher and a bunch of people in every class; you’d learn together and make friends you could play with.

For Noctis, school was at home. Sorta.

There weren’t many other kids in Hammerhead. Actually, it was only Cindy and Noctis most of the time; anyone else was just passing through with their parents. Noctis used to play with them when he was younger and got excited to see other children his age, but he’d learned quickly that those sorts of friendships were better avoided. It only made him feel worse to spend a day not having to play by himself for a change only to watch while his new friends were loaded into the back of a car that would drive away and most likely never return. It had taken a few hopeful attempts before he gave up, preferring to keep his distance rather than interact so that it didn’t hurt so much when he was alone again. Appreciating what he had and not dwelling on what he didn’t was a lot easier, just as he’d realized with those niggling questions he used to wonder about all the time:

Why did lots of families seem to go places when they never did?

Why did Noctis, with his black hair and blue eyes, look so different from Cindy and Uncle Cid?

Why did some kids have a mom and a dad, but he didn’t?

Just like the days when he’d tried to play with other kids at the garage, he’d eventually stopped asking. It only took so long before he figured out that Uncle Cid either didn’t know the answers or didn’t want to tell him. And that was okay—he kept reminding himself that he wasn’t _truly_ alone. His uncle had been there for as long as he could remember. He had Carbuncle and Nyx; sometimes Cindy would play with him, too. That was really all he needed, even if he did sometimes imagine what it would be like to have friends who were more like him.

With only two kids hanging around for long, there really wasn’t much point in building an entire school. Instead, Uncle Cid had come up with a system that worked pretty well for the last few months. He taught Cindy the way he always had; since she was going to take over the garage someday, it made sense. Noctis was…not so good with that sort of thing, though. He didn’t get mechanics, nor did he understand how one little piece of metal was so different from another. Uncle Cid had learned the fun way not to ask Noctis to bring him a specific type of wrench, because it would take about five tries before he’d get it right. Not that he really understood why there was a difference—wrenches unscrewed stuff, right? Why couldn’t you just use your hand? The one and only time he’d suggested it, Uncle Cid had laughed so hard he almost hit his head on the chassis he’d been working on at the time. After that, Cindy usually took over as his assistant.

Yeah, fixing cars was definitely _not_ Noctis’s thing.

That meant that they’d had a little bit of a problem when he turned five and was ready to start learning more than his collection of kids’ books had to offer. Uncle Cid always said he knew cars and that was about it, so teaching Noctis how to do other stuff wasn’t something he felt very comfortable with. Besides, he had his hands full helping Cindy; there just wasn’t enough time for him to teach _both_ of them.

So, he’d hired Noctis a tutor. And she was _almost_ as awesome as Nyx.

Unlike the rest of them, Crowe didn’t live in Hammerhead. She’d tried to show Noctis where she came from on a map once, but he couldn’t really tell much from that. The name of the city was too hard for him to say, and when he was surprised to see that it seemed so close, Crowe reminded him that the world was a lot bigger than the map. It made his head hurt to think about. Maybe that was just something else he’d understand better when he was older—or, at the very least, _taller_. He didn’t know if she would still be his tutor when that happened, but he really hoped so.

It certainly _seemed_ like she planned on sticking around. She’d set them a pretty light schedule to start with—afternoon classes four times a week—but warned him that they would spend more time working once he got used to it. On days like today, Noctis would grab the books she’d given him to practice his reading and counting, throw them in his backpack (which had Kenny Crow on it—he _hated_ Kenny Crow), and meet her at the caravan she stayed in outside Takka’s at _exactly_ two o’clock. Before Noctis was old enough for school, it used to be a place for the hunters to stay if they stopped in for the night (and it smelled like it, too), but Uncle Cid had rented it out for Crowe so that they could use it as a makeshift schoolhouse. If they had more room at the apartment, they probably would have made do there. As it was, things were tough enough when Uncle Cid had Noctis and Cindy both underfoot; adding another person meant they were more likely to get in the way.

The caravan worked out rather well: there was a kitchenette if he got hungry and bunk beds if he needed a nap while they were working. Crowe usually didn’t let him sleep since it was already late in the day, but sometimes he would get so tired from running around in the morning that she’d take pity on him. When he woke up, he’d have to work twice as hard to catch up. Cindy huffed and called it unfair if he told her, but he guessed he understood. He still had to learn stuff—a nap just slowed him down!

And Noctis _wanted_ to learn! He was really good at it, except for the whole reading thing. A couple of weeks ago, he’d even overheard Crowe telling Uncle Cid that he was one of the smartest students she’d ever had. He’d gotten a strange look on his face when she said that, but Noctis figured he was probably just so happy that he wasn’t sure how to react. His uncle didn’t always know how to express his emotions, at least not in ways Noctis understood.

As excited as he usually got when it was time to go to school, Noctis was practically bouncing while he wrapped Carbuncle up in a spare blanket from his bed and tucked him into his backpack so that only his red-horned head was sticking out of the top. Cindy had helped him swaddle his friend so that he had a kind of hood; that way he hopefully wouldn’t get dirty enough to need a bath right away. Even if he did, Noctis was too excited to care: Crowe had never met Carbuncle before! Noctis had told her about him—how they were best friends and how well he got along with Nyx—but Uncle Cid had never let him come along until now.

He should’ve, though. Carbuncle made Crowe laugh when she opened the door for him.

“Pretty sure my contract is only for _one_ student,” she told him as he climbed up into the caravan and set his backpack down on the table.

“Don’t worry!” Noctis reassured her, unzipping the bag to carefully unload his friend. He didn’t dare to remove the blanket, though; it had been hard enough to put it on. “Carbuncle is real quiet.”

“ _Really_ quiet,” Crowe corrected before shooting him a sideways smirk. “So, _this_ is the famous Carbuncle.”

“Uh huh!”

The two stared at each other for a long moment, Noctis looking between them with wide eyes. Carbuncle got along with everybody, so he wasn’t worried that Crowe wouldn’t like him. …Much. Still, it made him a little nervous when she didn’t say anything right away. Maybe she’d make Noctis keep him in his backpack—but then Carbuncle would be sad and lonely…

It turned out he didn’t have anything to be concerned about. Crowe’s expression was stern as she reached out and shook one of Carbuncle’s front paws. “Good to meet you.”

_She likes him!_

“He says it’s good to meet you too. And he thinks you’re pretty,” he added, translating for his suddenly shy friend.

“Well, isn’t that sweet of him. Flattery gets you everywhere—he can stay.” Before Noctis could celebrate too much, she added, “As long as you _focus_.”

“I will,” he immediately responded, jumping into his seat for emphasis.

That appeased Crowe for now, and she gave Carbuncle one last nod before pulling out— _ew_ —a math book and setting it on the table. Well, at least it wasn’t _reading_. He could handle four hours of numbers. 

One of the strange but wonderful things about school was that the time went by faster than he realized. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being around Crowe—far from it. She was smart and funny, even when he was pretty sure she wasn’t trying to be. If he didn’t understand something, she worked with him until he did instead of growing impatient the way he imagined normal teachers might. As great as their lessons were, though, Crowe was even better after. Living outside Hammerhead meant she knew all kinds of things about Lucis; when they finished for the day, she’d tell him a few stories about what she’d seen in her travels. She must have visited a lot of places, because she described some that he’d never heard the hunters speak of. Maybe they just didn’t like mentioning it, but Noctis preferred to think that his teacher knew more than anybody else.

At the end of a long afternoon of hard work, she took him to Takka’s for dinner and let him ask all the questions he could think of. Not once did she rebuff his curiosity. Most adults would argue that he shouldn’t say _this_ or she couldn’t tell him about _that_ ; for every query he posed, however, she had an answer. Sometimes she had to think for a few minutes before telling him, but he always waited patiently. She wouldn’t deny him.

Once they’d eaten and his hunger for knowledge was sated, it was back to the apartment. Cindy had a later bedtime than he did ( _Lucky…_ ), so she and Uncle Cid were still busy in the garage when Noctis returned. There were some nights when Crowe would just drop him off, especially the last day of their lessons for the week so she could get ready to go back to…wherever it was she lived again. Tonight, though, she had time to wait around for him to get through his bath and crawl into bed.

He was _really_ glad for that, because if there was one thing Crowe did better than anybody, it was tell bedtime stories.

“So,” she sighed, sitting on the floor beside his bed after he pulled the covers up to his chin, “what kind of story you in the mood for?”

Noctis shrugged—it wasn’t like he had a preference when anything she chose would be amazing.

Rolling her eyes, Crowe pulled out her phone and playfully muttered, “You’re a big help. Okay, how about… _The Frog Prince_?”

“The _what_?”

“ _The Frog Prince_ ,” she repeated. When Noctis continued to frown at her, she flipped the phone around to show him that the title of the book was indeed _that_ weird. He had no idea why anyone would want to read a book about a prince who was actually a frog, but…he’d give it a shot.

Once he murmured his wary assent, Crowe swiped a finger across the screen a few times to get to the first page and leaned back on one palm as she started to read, “Once upon a time, there was a little boy. Probably around your age,” she added as an aside. Noctis nodded. “Anyway, this little boy was nothing special. Poor family, not that bright, going nowhere fast—that sort of thing.”

“It really says that?” asked Noctis incredulously. Most stories made the hero out to be smart and brave, not…well, _this_.

Crowe simply shrugged. “I’m paraphrasing.”

“Huh?”

“Giving you the short version.”

“Oh.”

“Can I continue?”

Noctis burrowed lower in his bed and buried his nose in Carbuncle’s fur as he apologetically nodded.

“Thank you. Okay, so this kid doesn’t have a whole lot going for him and neither does his family. One day, though, he’s on his way to school when he sees this frog.”

“Is the frog the prince?” interrupted Noctis. When Crowe raised a patient eyebrow at him, he muttered, “Sorry,” and fell silent again.

“Where this kid isn’t anything to write home about, the frog is nothing like a normal frog. You remember what those look like?”

Racking his brains for a moment—he was getting _tired_ —Noctis belatedly conjured up an image and described, “Uh…green? And they hop?”

“Good, and what sound do they make?”

“ _Ribbit_!” he croaked. That one, he remembered!

“You got it,” Crowe praised him, offering up a quick high five before turning back to her phone. “This frog wasn’t green, though—it was _red_. The little boy sees this frog sitting in the middle of the road and knows that if he doesn’t do something, it’ll probably get squished by a car.”

“Ew…”

“I’m with you there. So, he runs into the street”—she paused for a moment, expression turning sour— “but looked both ways first, and grabs the frog so that he can get it out of harm’s way. He knows that if he just lets it go, it’ll probably find its way back into the road. Instead, he— _thumb_.”

Blinking, it took Noctis a second to realize what she meant and sheepishly pull his thumb out of his mouth. Crowe cringed a little but chose not to comment when he wiped the saliva off on Carbuncle in his preoccupation with wondering what the little boy was going to do with the frog now. Rather, she cleared her throat and started up again.

“ _Instead_ , he decides to take the frog to a lake nearby where it’ll be safe. It’s not very close, so he walks most of the day before he finally gets there. When he does, he sets the frog down on a rock and watches it dive into the water. Once he’s sure that it’s gone, the little boy turns back around and finds himself face to face with an old man.” She glanced up at him with a mischievous smile. “Like, _really_ old. He’s got a huge beard and everything.”

“Bigger than Uncle Cid’s?” he couldn’t help but ask. Crowe nodded exaggeratedly.

“Definitely. We’re talking _enormous_ , with twigs and leaves in it. The guy looks like he just walked out of the woods.”

“Where did he come from?”

Smiling, she turned back to her phone. “The little boy doesn’t know. One minute he was alone, and the next, he’s looking up at this old man. The guy doesn’t look happy, either.”

Noctis gasped, hugging Carbuncle tighter. His voice came out muffled when he wondered, “Maybe it was his frog…”

“Who knows? The little boy doesn’t get to ask, because the old man tells him how very _brave_ and _noble_ he was to bring that frog all the way to a place where it would be safe when so many people would have just left it in the street to die.” She paused when Noctis nodded vehemently, still smirking as she continued, “It turns out that this old man is a guardian of the forests and rivers. As a reward for the boy’s good deed and kind heart, he calls him the Prince of Frogs and offers him one favor.”

“What’s that mean?”

“He can have anything he wants—but only one thing.”

“Wow,” he whispered. _Anything_ he wanted? Noctis didn’t know what he would do with a wish like that!

Seeming to sense his thoughts, Crowe shrugged. “It’s pretty huge, right? So, he offers the little boy this gift, and do you know what he decides to ask for?”

Noctis’s mouth was open in a little _o_ as he shook his head. It didn’t even bother him that Crowe chuckled at his reaction.

“He asks,” she started slowly, building up the tension, “for his family to always have everything they need. To be safe and happy and always have each other. The old man agrees, and the little boy goes home to live happily ever after with his family. The end.”

With that, Crowe abruptly clicked the lock button on her screen as she stood up. Noctis swallowed a yawn and shook his head in confusion.

“It’s over?”

“That’s all they wrote,” she confirmed, leaning in to adjust his blankets where they’d fallen down during the course of the story. Noctis hardly noticed, though, nor was he listening when she said it was getting late enough that he should already be sleeping. Instead, his mind was mulling over that wish—what it meant, both for the boy and his family…

_Family…_

“Were they?”

The words left his mouth before he could think better of saying them, and Crowe turned to him with a frown from where she was hovering in the doorway, one hand on the light switch.

“Were they what, Noctis?”

Shifting a bit uncomfortably under her scrutiny, his eyes dropped to Carbuncle’s fur as he elaborated, “Happy and safe…together?”

Crowe paused only for a moment, but it was still noticeable. He wanted to apologize—maybe that hadn’t been such a good question since it was obvious that the story _would_ have a happy ending. If it didn’t, it wasn’t like they were going to write about it. Nobody wanted sad endings.

As always, however, Crowe didn’t deny him his answer.

“I don’t know,” she told him quietly, and he could see her shrug one shoulder out of the corner of his eye. “I think they probably did, though.”

Noctis nodded, holding in all the other things he was thinking as Crowe said goodnight and turned out the light. Even though he was tired and sleep was already trying to drag him under after such a long day, in the back of his mind he thought about that boy in the story. He wondered who his family was—if he had parents and siblings, or if they were more like Noctis’s family. He wondered whether they really _had_ been safe and happy, or if something bad ever happened even though the old man promised they’d always be together.

More than anything else, though, as Noctis drifted off to sleep with his best friend cuddled close, he wondered what he would have wished for if _he_ were the frog prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Broken pocket watch, shattered timepiece... Geddit? ;D  
> *crickets*  
> ...Okay, I tried.


	7. Sword and Shield

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! As always, I just want to thank you all for taking the time to read and provide feedback. You guys are awesome!

It was the deadliest chase Hammerhead had ever seen—no, that _Lucis_ had ever seen. A black car with silver stripes down the hood careened around the corner, its rear tires spinning so fast that it nearly lost control as the driver attempted to right its course. What he’d thought would be an easy getaway had turned out to be anything but, yet he persevered. He could do this. He just had to stay focused.

The sound of sirens behind him almost drowned out the screeching of tires as the two police cars on his tail swept onto the same street. He had a good enough head start that there was some distance between them; they were gaining fast, though. Hitting the accelerator with his foot to the floor, he gripped the steering wheel so tightly that he worried he might crush it. It was holding steady for now, but he wasn’t sure how long that would last, so finding an escape route was going to have to take priority over outrunning the cops. His car, while stylish and powerful, had nothing on theirs. Whatever was under their hoods was impressive, and he would have admired it if it didn’t mean certain failure for him.

That wasn’t a problem, however. When one side had brawn, the best method to combat it was with brains.

Just ahead, he spied a sharp turn onto a rough, patchy road that probably hadn’t been repaved in years. It was definitely off the beaten track, and he had no idea where it would let him out on the other side— _if_ there was another side. For all he knew, it would dead end somewhere; then he’d be in real trouble. His car may not have been able to compete with the police for long, but he was more likely to escape this way than on foot. Of course, it might not matter regardless of what he chose: the street itself (if you could call it that) was treacherous enough that his ride would be lucky to make the trip in one piece. Potholes were preferable to prison, though, so it was really no contest. Sometimes, you just had to take a chance, right?

With a deep breath and white-knuckled control, he jerked the wheel to the side when he was right on top of the turnoff, hoping the unexpected shift would buy him a bit more leeway. Whatever he gained would undoubtedly be lost fast on terrain like this: there were potholes and jagged rocks sticking up out of the ground, threatening to flatten his tires or worse. He tried to steer around them whenever possible, but there wasn’t any avoiding most of the natural debris at these speeds. All he could do was keep his fingers crossed (figuratively speaking, as he needed both hands and _all_ his fingers on the wheel right now) and hope for the best.

One glance in the rear-view mirror gave him a boost of encouragement: the cops were having just as much trouble back there as he was. Good.

The hills and rocky cliffs that had remained in the distance earlier rose up around him, blotting out the sun and drenching the landscape in shadow. It became impossible to avoid the hazards laid out before him when the only other alternative was crashing into sheer rock faces towering mere feet from the edges of the road. It would have to be a different game now, one of careful calculation rather than pure nerve.

He eased his foot off the accelerator, wincing as the car bumped over a rock and landed in a pothole on the other side. Somehow, his trusty steed sped on without so much as a groan. If it could hold out like this just a little further…

Really, he should have known better than to even entertain that thought. The second it crossed his mind, he threw on the brakes as a huge blue foot descended onto the road in front of him, blocking his exit through the gorge. There was no way around it; what little space remained on either side was far too small for him to fit through even if he ran. He was left with no other option but to stop—maybe if he was quick enough, he could hoof it in the opposite direction before the cops had a chance to turn around.

He never got the opportunity. Although he hadn’t been going quite as fast once they entered the trench, hitting the brakes so quickly threw his rear end out from behind him. There was no time or room for him to maneuver the car back around before it slammed into the wall of the gorge with a resounding _crash_.

“Whoooooaaaa!” Noctis screamed, falling to the side as the wall of blocks collapsed under the pressure of his toy car’s impact. He used his foot to roll the police cars to a stop right behind the scene of the accident with a grin. “We got ‘im!”

While his imaginary cops hurried out of their vehicles to arrest the suspect, Noctis rolled onto his front and grabbed Carbuncle where he was smugly standing at the end of the makeshift ravine.

“You’re a hero, Carbuncle!”

The look his friend shot him for that _clearly_ indicated that he was well aware of it but wouldn’t openly agree for fear of sounding arrogant. If there was one thing he never did, it was get too full of himself. No matter how much Noctis praised him for how great he was, Carbuncle would always let him cuddle close and remind him that the sentiment went both ways. It was yet another reason why they were such good friends, even if Noctis just shrugged to hear it most of the time. He was smart and all—Crowe and Uncle Cid said so!—but he didn’t really think there was anything _special_ about him the way he did Carbuncle. He was just… _Noctis_. If that was enough to keep his best friend interested in him, though, he figured that was fine.

Sighing, Noctis surveyed the destruction his wayward bank robber had caused and frowned. He didn’t really feel like cleaning it all up right now, but he couldn’t think of anything else to do either. Sometimes stories came to him pretty easily, as this one had when he woke up and remembered he didn’t have to go to school. Cindy was busy helping Uncle Cid in the garage today, so he hadn’t even bothered coming up with anything they could do together. After breakfast, he’d immediately retreated to his room to see how the tale would play out, and it turned out even _better_ than he’d imagined when Carbuncle decided to get involved. Now, however, his creativity was all used up; there was only so long he could spend rolling toy cars around his room before he got bored. It was a nice enough day outside, but it was also a Friday—no school, and no Nyx.

Just Noctis and Carbuncle, as it always had been and presumably always would be.

“Wanna go treasure hunting?” Noctis asked with a shrug. That was what he called it when they explored behind the garage, picking through the old tires and car parts to see if there was anything cool he could spirit away to accompany his broken pocket watch. It wasn’t often that he discovered much of note, and he was pretty sure anything that _did_ get left back there had been provided by his uncle, but it could be fun to simply wander around sometimes.

Carbuncle didn’t really care either way today, although he was quick to voice his usual reservations about the dust. Uncle Cid had just given him a bath three days ago, this time because Noctis had accidentally grabbed his paw when his hands had chocolate on them. (Nyx was right—chocolate waffles _definitely_ needed to be eaten with a fork despite how annoying it was to clean it afterward). Not only would it be less than desirable to have to lose Carbuncle again so soon, but Noctis would also feel a little guilty to put his uncle out like that twice in one week if he could help it.

Toys forgotten for now, he stumbled onto his feet and stood on his tiptoes to look out the window. If it wasn’t too dusty outside, maybe he could get away with just wrapping Carbuncle up in a blanket.

The air was mostly clear, which was a relief and a novelty. With winter rapidly approaching, Hammerhead was cool enough that Noctis needed a light jacket, but things really didn’t change much otherwise. Everything stayed the same shade of brown all year round; dust was always kicked up by the light winds, although it was less as the autumn breezes went still. The biggest difference was that Uncle Cid didn’t complain so loudly about how it was _too hot for this_. (Noctis never really asked what _this_ was, but he assumed it had something to do with fiddling around beneath cars all day. That couldn’t be fun in the middle of the summer.)

Winter meant that he could bring Carbuncle outside with him more often, but there were also drawbacks as well. They wouldn’t get _snow_ , for one thing; all he’d ever seen of it was on the news at the diner. The pictures they showed never failed to entrance Noctis even if he’d looked at them a million times, and he told his uncle once that he wanted to see what it was like with his own eyes. According to Nyx, it was as cold as ice and melted all over your clothes when you went inside; it was still so pretty that Noctis didn’t mind that. Maybe _living_ in a place that got snow all the time would be difficult, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to play in it at least once. He had a feeling that Carbuncle would like snow a lot more than the dirt that inhabited Hammerhead with them—he’d never need a bath if the snow melted away!

It was a nice dream, just like the other adventures he thought about going on one day when he was bigger. For now, focusing on what he _could_ do instead of what he _couldn’t_ was a better idea. That was something Crowe always told him when he grew frustrated with not understanding what they were learning: it didn’t mean he wasn’t smart, only that he had to work at improving so he could do more things. Knowing that he wanted to explore one day didn’t mean he never would—he simply needed to put forth the effort to get there. And he would…someday.

Today, however, those thoughts were swept out of his mind when he peered outside to see a familiar face sitting amidst the cars below his window, staring up at him as though he’d merely been waiting for attention.

“Umbra’s here!” Noctis exclaimed, musings of snow and winter abandoned in favor of making it downstairs as fast as possible.

He paused only for a moment, glancing indecisively between Carbuncle and the window. There wasn’t any dirt in the air, but…

“Maybe you should stay here,” he mumbled without meeting his friend’s shiny little eyes. “You’ll get dirty.”

Carbuncle patiently agreed, happily accepting one more hug before Noctis left him on his pillow where he would be most comfortable. Normally, he’d hate the idea of being left behind for _any_ reason, even if he understood the necessity. When Umbra was around, though, his friend was quite content to remain somewhere— _anywhere_ —out of reach. They’d learned the hard way that dogs didn’t discriminate when it came to slobbering on things no matter how smart they were.

And Umbra was _extremely_ intelligent. At least, that was Noctis’s opinion. If he wasn’t, half the things he did wouldn’t make any sense at all.

They’d first met about a year ago—Umbra was a stray they’d found behind the garage, wandering around but never messing with anything he shouldn’t. Uncle Cid would still shoo him away with strict instructions not to give him food; when Cindy had asked, he grumbled about how feeding a dog would repeatedly draw it back. Four-year-old Noctis _may_ have snuck a few helpings of his green beans to him when his uncle wasn’t looking, but that never seemed to matter: Umbra _always_ returned, whether they fed him or not. Uncle Cid eventually gave up, especially when he saw how attached Noctis had gotten to the stray, but his resolve was unwavering with regards to keeping him.

“Barely got room for the three of us,” he’d huff good-naturedly, usually ruffling Noctis’s hair to take the sting out of his words. “Ain’t gonna add a dog.”

So, Noctis made do with the brief hours he got with Umbra before the latter wandered off to wherever it was he frequented outside of Hammerhead. They called him a stray, but he _did_ have a collar; that’s how they’d learned his name, although there was no address or other identifying information for the owner. Whoever they were, if they existed, Noctis couldn’t help but be grateful that they appeared so willing to share their dog with strangers. It added some excitement to an otherwise boring day, even if he did have to endure Uncle Cid’s shout for him not to run as he sprinted through the garage door. He needed to work on remembering that.

Umbra was waiting for him right where he’d been sitting before, and Noctis immediately threw his arms around the dog’s neck as soon as he was within range.

“Hey, Umbra! You’re back!”

Huffing noisily, the latter allowed him a few seconds of affection before wriggling away. This was the part of their visits that always had Noctis rolling his eyes, but he waited tolerantly while Umbra nosed around his clothes nevertheless. It was probably just the dog’s way of refamiliarizing himself with Noctis’s scent; that was what Uncle Cid had told him, anyway. Umbra took it a step further, though, and gently prodded Noctis’s chest and back the way his uncle did when Noctis fell and he was checking for broken bones. He liked to think it was Umbra’s way of asking if he was doing okay, especially when it had been a few weeks since they’d seen each other.

“I’m good,” he sighed once Umbra finished his cursory examination. The dog eyed him suspiciously for a moment before seeming to let the subject drop, sniffing his face and giving him one good lick on the cheek. Noctis giggled at the sensation but wiped the drool off on his sleeve— _ew_.

Umbra had always been much bigger than him, but he was never afraid the way a lot of other people around the outpost were (including grown-ups, which was strange). Unlike some of the other strays Noctis occasionally noticed in Hammerhead, Umbra never growled or bit or did anything even remotely threatening. He’d sit calmly while Noctis ran his fingers through Umbra’s black fur or follow him around when he had places to go. No matter how long it had been since their last visit, an easy companionship fell between them immediately. It made Noctis wish Uncle Cid wasn’t so sure they couldn’t find _someplace_ to keep a dog.

For now, he’d just be happy with the time that they had together. Carbuncle might not have been very excited about treasure hunting, but when he suggested it to Umbra, he got a happy bark in response. The second Noctis took off towards the back of the garage, he followed suit, trotting along at a slower pace so that he never got ahead. That was another thing: Umbra always had his back. In a way, he reminded Noctis of Nyx—except a lot furrier and with two extra legs. Those came in handy for treasure hunting, so Noctis would consider himself lucky.

“Okay, Umbra. Today, we’re looking _there_.” Noctis pointed at the pile of tires Uncle Cid always said he needed to recycle but which kept growing larger instead. At this point, it was more of a mountain of rubber than anything else; its height had always been too daunting for Noctis to hunt through it on his own. Now that he had some help, he figured he could afford to be a little ambitious.

Umbra, however, wasn’t quite as enthused with the idea. With a decidedly hesitant expression, he didn’t try to stop Noctis until the latter reached up and prepared to climb the side of the pile. _That_ was apparently where he was putting his paw down, and Umbra’s mouth closed around his ankle before he could get more than a foot off the ground.

Frowning, Noctis glanced down at him and shrugged. “It’s not _that_ high.”

Without letting go, the dog whined his disagreement. No, it wasn’t the biggest pile in the world, but he _clearly_ thought it was too tall for Noctis.

“I can’t see anything from down here,” he huffed, irritated with the insinuation.

Umbra stared up at him impassively before giving his shoe a pointed tug.

 _Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea_ , he thought. It looked like Carbuncle was going to be the better treasure hunting partner after all.

Pouting slightly, Noctis jumped to the ground and folded his arms over his chest. He _really_ wanted to explore here; it was the only place he hadn’t checked yet. Who knew what could be hiding underneath all that rubber? Uncle Cid might have stashed something awesome in there, which would explain why he hadn’t gotten rid of it all the way he kept saying he would. Noctis _had_ to know!

It was impossible to tell whether Umbra read his mind or simply felt bad for denying him his hunt, but as soon as Noctis was safely settled on solid concrete, he turned back to the tire mountain and swiftly began his own ascent.

Noctis’s bitterness was replaced with surprise and then concern as he watched, flinching every time Umbra’s paws slipped in his attempt to find a sturdy place to put them. The further the dog went, the more Noctis had to admit that he’d had a point—there were some spots he wouldn’t have been able to reach without jumping, and there was no way he could have done that without falling right back down again, most likely hurting himself in the process.

Umbra, however, was more than capable of making it all on his own. When he stopped at the top, a noble silhouette against the cloudless sky, Noctis whooped in victory.

“Good boy, Umbra!”

“What’re you doin’ to that poor dog?!”

_Uh oh!_

Whirling around, Noctis desperately attempted to rearrange his expression into something less _guilty_ and more _innocent_ when he spotted Cindy glaring at him. While Uncle Cid tolerated and even supported his treasure hunts, Cindy was less convinced that it wouldn’t end in Noctis either getting hurt or making a mess. Depending on the day, he really wasn’t sure which one she was more concerned about.

“I’m not doing anything!” he immediately tried to defend himself. His words came out slightly stilted in the battle against saying _doin’ nothin’_ , but he knew that he’d feel awful for any slip-ups the next time Crowe asked if he’d been practicing his grammar. Cindy must have thought it was a sign that he was lying, though, because her eyebrows shot up so high that he wondered if they were trying to shake hands with her hair.

“Umbra’s on top’a the tires,” she pointed out, hands on her hips. “But you ain’t doin’ nothin’?”

“He did it all by himself.” It wasn’t a total lie, anyway.

“Uh huh.”

“He did!”

Cindy shot Umbra a skeptical glance before rolling her eyes and sighing, “Well, you’d best make sure he gets down without wreckin’ nothin’. I wouldn’t wanna be you if Paw-paw comes back here ‘n’ finds a right mess.”

How ironic— _Noctis_ wouldn’t want to be Noctis either in that scenario. Uncle Cid didn’t lose his temper or yell very often, but fooling with things around the garage was the easy way to get desserts withheld for a week. Treasure hunts aside, his uncle always reminded him that this wasn’t a playground and he could easily get hurt if he wasn’t careful. Nothing like that had happened yet—it wasn’t something he really wanted to test, though.

So, with a heavy sigh, Noctis turned around and called, “Come on, Umbra.”

The dog merely stared at him. Of course, _now_ would be the time he chose not to listen.

“ _Down_.”

As if to spite him, Umbra did exactly as ordered: he settled down on top of the tires quite comfortably, head on his front paws to watch what Noctis would do.

“Guess he’s comfy up there, huh?” giggled Cindy behind him. She still looked put out when he turned, but there was amusement sparkling in her eyes that hadn’t been there before. Even though she was getting old (she’d be twelve in a few months, which was practically _ancient_ ), she still had a sense of humor sometimes.

“He usually listens,” mumbled Noctis, kicking at a scrap of rubber that had been dislodged when Umbra made his way to the top of his new perch.

“I’ll bet ‘e does.” Cindy took a few steps forward to playfully brush a finger across his chin. “Probably doesn’t wanna see that pout.”

“’M not _pouting_.”

“Sure looks like it to _me_.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Yuh _huh_.”

Noctis could feel his lips turning up in an involuntary smile as she kept prodding at his cheek. Swiping her hand away, he tried and failed to preserve at least a little bit of his irritation to whine, “What do you _want_?”

The change of subject had Cindy backing up a bit, although that triumphant smirk at having gotten the better of his mood was still firmly in place. One of these days, he really needed to perfect his indifferent expression so that he could get the upper hand for a change.

“Paw-paw wants you out front. Got a customer he thinks you can help with,” she explained, already moving back in that direction with a gesture for Noctis to follow. He did so mindlessly, baffled by the idea that Uncle Cid would want _his_ help with anything that had to do with cars. They’d learned this lesson before, hadn’t they?

“How come he doesn’t want _you_ to do it?” he wondered aloud.

Cindy shrugged. “Ain’t that kinda job.”

“What?”

If she offered any response, Noctis didn’t hear it. His attention was immediately diverted the moment they circled around the front of the garage to find one of the most amazing cars he’d ever seen parked by the door—it was _way_ nicer than any of the others that frequented Hammerhead, or even the toys he had upstairs. The sleek silver vehicle had a long, curved body rather than the angular models he was used to; its low, sloped roof was black to match the tinted windows. Everything was so shiny that he could spy glitter sparkling in the paint, reflecting the sunlight and reminding him of pictures he’d seen of the ocean.

It was so awesome that Noctis felt his stomach drop. Uncle Cid couldn’t want his help with _this_ car—it was too pretty!

His dread only increased when he got a look at the man talking to his uncle while gesturing towards the vehicle with the air of someone who _owned it_. The customer was intimidating, and that was putting it mildly. His neatly pressed suit was as clean as the car itself; even when they drew closer, Noctis couldn’t spot a speck of dirt or dust anywhere. It made him wonder why someone like that would stop in Hammerhead, where he would be lucky if the black fabric wasn’t brown by the time he left. After all, he didn’t seem like the type of person who was very willing to put up with minor inconveniences: he looked a little older than Nyx, but his expression was far more severe beneath his closely cropped hair. Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he spoke with Uncle Cid, but they weren’t the happy ones his uncle said came from smiling too much. No, these looked different, almost like his skin wasn’t used to smiling at _all_.

Seeming to sense his thoughts, the man proved his point when he turned his gaze on Noctis and Cindy without so much as a twitch of his lips. It wasn’t that he _expected_ it, per se, but he was accustomed to Uncle Cid’s customers donning happy faces when they saw a couple of kids wandering around. Noctis tried hard not to judge, though. Maybe he’d just found out that there was something seriously wrong with his car.

Or maybe it was just him.

Much as he liked to at least meet people before deciding what kind of person they were, Noctis was leaning towards the latter as they approached with no change to the customer’s stern expression. All he did was glance between the two of them, his eyes lingering a moment longer on Noctis, before turning his attention back to Uncle Cid.

“The gil is no object,” he continued in a deep, firm tone that matched his appearance perfectly. “As long as the work is done right, I’m not bothered by the cost.”

Uncle Cid snorted. “You didn’t come to no chop shop. I ain’t gonna rip you off.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

“That so?”

Noctis was surprised to see the man quirk the tiniest smirk as he replied, “I know you too well to believe that you would be capable of damaging a car, accidentally or otherwise.”

“Well, you ain’t wrong ‘bout that,” mused his uncle with a hearty laugh. His hand slapped down on Noctis’s shoulder, rocking him gently back and forth. “Ain’t that right, Noctis?”

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, ducking his head when Uncle Cid’s customer looked down at him.

“Quite the vote of confidence,” Noctis heard him joke. His uncle hummed, appearing suddenly beside him as he knelt to catch his gaze. There was a smile on his face, and he wrapped an arm around Noctis’s shoulders.

“Cor here’s an old friend’a mine,” he explained, more to Noctis than Cindy. “We go way back to before you were even born.”

A quick poke to Noctis’s stomach made him laugh in spite of himself. Nodding in acknowledgement, he squirmed closer and toyed idly with the zipper of Uncle Cid’s jacket. This was going somewhere, and he was afraid he already knew what his uncle was about to ask of him.

“Now, his car here needs some fine tunin’, ‘n’ I thought you could help me with that.”

There it was, just as he’d suspected; at least Uncle Cid wasn’t going to drag it out. Of all the cars for his uncle to ask him to work on with him, it _had_ to be a really nice one? He’d probably scratch the paint by looking at it funny—forget actually _touching_ it.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Uncle Cid hugged him closer and softly prompted him, “Hey, what’s that look for, boy?”

Noctis couldn’t quite find the words, especially not with the customer listening in on them as if he had nothing better to do. (He probably didn’t, considering what he was here for, but still.) All he managed in reply was a shake of his head.

“No? You don’t wanna help me?”

“Mm-mm.”

“And why’s that?”

With a quick peek at their audience, Noctis leaned in to whisper in his uncle’s ear, “I’mma break it…”

Uncle Cid guffawed loudly, much to his chagrin. It wasn’t _funny_! He hated feeling like he had no idea what he was doing, even if cars and fixing stuff had never been of interest to him. Cindy was always so good at it; his uncle said she was born with engine oil in her veins, whatever that meant. Yeah, he liked having his lessons with Crowe and learning other things, but it still made him feel inadequate when Uncle Cid asked him to perform what should have been the simplest tasks around the garage only for him to get it wrong at just about every turn. This time, there was a lot more at stake, so why was he _laughing_?

“’S not funny,” he grumbled, pouting. It took a few seconds for Uncle Cid to compose himself, but he made an attempt to at least rein in his obvious amusement.

“You don’t wanna break nothin’, huh?” he asked sympathetically.

Above them, Noctis spied a hint of a smile on the customer’s— _Cor’s_?—face, which only made him feel more embarrassed. Still, he managed another nod, eyes firmly locked on the zipper where he was holding onto it like a lifeline.

Uncle Cid squeezed him a little tighter and reassured him, “You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout that. I wasn’t gonna make you work on the car. Got a more important job needs doin’.”

… _That_ was surprising. Also, it was downright strange: in Uncle Cid’s world, no job was more important than that of keeping the garage running. The fact that he’d thought of one—moreover, one that he trusted _Noctis_ to handle—piqued his curiosity until it was a struggle not to bounce up and down, begging for details. His uncle seemed to recognize it, too, if his sudden smirk was any indication.

“Thinkin’ you might wanna help now?” he questioned with mock indifference. “I mean, if you don’t wanna, I can always have Cindy d—“

“I can do it,” interrupted Noctis, eyes wide in anticipation. There was _no way_ he’d give up an important task his uncle chose just for him to Cindy. She could help with the car—that was probably what she’d be happier doing, anyway.

Grinning, Uncle Cid exclaimed, “Good! ‘Cause I think you might jus’ be the best person for the job.”

Noctis couldn’t help preening a little under the weight of that compliment. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Ain’t that right, Cor?”

“I can think of no one better,” the latter agreed. All of a sudden, Noctis found he liked him much more than he had before.

“Then it’s settled.” His uncle nodded resolutely as Cor left them to walk back to his car. Noctis watched him open the rear door and lean in, only half listening as Uncle Cid explained, “See, Cor’s got these two nephews. Ain’t much older’n you are, I’d reckon. It’s gonna be a while before they can get back on the road, so I thought you’d do the honors of showing ‘em ‘round town while us grown-ups is busy. Maybe y’all can play some video games if Takka’s ain’t got much business today. How’s that sound?”

How did that sound? _Awful_ —that’s how it sounded. Sure, he might have a good time if Cor’s nephews were nice. They could play some video games, walk around Hammerhead, maybe go find Umbra and finish his expedition. There were plenty of things he could think of that would make hanging out with two other kids fun, but all of that burned to ashes and scattered on the wind when he remembered what would inevitably come after. To his knowledge, Cor had never come to Hammerhead. The only reason he was here now was so that Uncle Cid could fix up his car; after that, he’d be on his way. He’d pack up his nephews, drive off to wherever it was they were going, and Noctis would be left behind mourning the loss of what could have been a friendship. _Again._

He already knew how this would end. The best thing he could do was nod for Uncle Cid’s sake and mentally steel himself against the disappointment that came from hoping for what he couldn’t have.

So, he straightened his shoulders and tried not to make it too obvious that he was partially hiding behind his uncle’s leg when two boys slid out of the back of the fancy car. He had to admit that they weren’t exactly what he was expecting.

Nephews were related, right? Noctis vaguely remembered Crowe explaining various relationships to him at one point, but there were so many that he’d forgotten just about all of them. Besides, only three mattered in their family. Right now, however, he was racking his brains to recall what it was she’d said—was it that nephews shared a parent? No, that was brothers and sisters. But it was _something_ like that.

Either way, it looked like Cor’s nephews had nothing in common even if they _were_ related. One was only a bit taller than Noctis with sandy brown hair and green eyes behind a shiny pair of glasses; the other towered over him, his skin much darker to match his dark brown hair and piercing amber gaze. He looked like what Noctis pictured in his head whenever Crowe read him stories about playground bullies who picked on other kids, and it immediately set him on edge.

Neither said a word as Cor guided them forward, although he could tell their curiosity mirrored his own. It had to be strange, stopping at an outpost only to have to interact with the locals. If Noctis wasn’t accustomed to meeting new people all the time, he would have felt the same. He harbored enough curiosity about their varied appearances that it hardly mattered how new their faces were, however.

“These are my nephews, Ignis,” Cor introduced the one with the glasses first, “and Gladiolus. Boys, this is Noctis.”

“Hi,” grunted the bigger one—Gladiolus—with an expression as severe as Cor’s had been when Noctis first saw him.

Ignis was at least politer, albeit ridiculously so. He actually _bowed_ a little as he announced in an unfamiliar accent, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Noctis.”

Frowning, he couldn’t stop himself from blurting out, “You talk funny.”

Before Uncle Cid could do more than nudge his shoulder in rebuke, Cor explained, “Ignis goes to a very advanced school.”

“What’s that mean?” he asked. From the sound of his uncle’s sigh, he probably shouldn’t have, but it was too late to take it back.

“It means he learns faster than he would elsewhere.”

 _Wow. He must be_ super _smart!_

That was probably a good place to stop plying them with questions and just let Uncle Cid get to work, but something about the way Cor’s expression had softened the more he interacted with Noctis gave him the courage to continue. His uncle’s friend didn’t appear to mind.

“What about Glad…Gla…?”

The object of his curiosity rolled his eyes, making Noct swallow hard in apprehension. They’d only just met; the last thing he wanted was to offend anyone. Gladiolus’s smirk was patient and knowing, though, as if he was used to having this conversation. With a name like _that_ , he probably was.

“Gladio’s fine.”

“O-okay,” he mumbled, scuffing his shoe nervously against the ground. “ _Gladio_.”

“Gladio is homeschooled,” Cor cut in, graciously switching to the name Noctis was more comfortable with, “as part of a special course of study.”

Honestly, he had no idea what that meant, nor did he care. The fact that he and Cindy weren’t the only ones who didn’t go to regular schools made his insides warmer regardless. Maybe a lot of kids didn’t go to school; perhaps their system wasn’t so unique after all. It wasn’t that he hated the idea of being homeschooled—he loved Crowe, and it made him feel special to be her only student. At the same time, however, it was yet another thing that separated him from kids his age besides simple proximity. He _still_ didn’t want to get attached to these two when they were just going to leave, but he could at least take some solace from knowing that he wasn’t as different as he thought.

“I’m homeschooled too,” he replied, his voice muffled by the fabric of Uncle Cid’s jeans. Noctis didn’t remember pressing his face into the side of his uncle’s leg, but it appeared that Ignis and Gladio weren’t going to make fun of him for it. Well, not in front of Uncle Cid and Cor. There really wasn’t any telling once they were on their own.

Which, of course, was the perfect moment for his uncle to suggest, “How’s ‘bout you show these two ‘round the place? Ain’t gonna be nothin’ t’see here ‘cept work.”

Cindy was positively beaming on his other side, and Noctis found it difficult to resist the urge to roll his eyes. She _would_ be excited for them to get to work when Noctis was dreading it. There was no use delaying the inevitable, though, so Noctis sighed and reluctantly relinquished his hold on his uncle’s jacket. He could do this. He wasn’t a baby—he could get through one day of entertaining strangers and go back to his usual routine tomorrow. All he had to do was keep his chin up the way Uncle Cid always told him.

Noctis did just that, although his fingers stubbornly insisted on tangling up in the hem of his shirt as he nodded for Ignis and Gladio to follow him. There was no reason for new people to make him so uneasy; he was excited to meet strangers more frequently than he was nervous. Something about knowing Ignis and Gladio were Cor’s nephews—nephews to one of his uncle’s _friends_ —altered his perspective of the situation.

He was walking a tightrope. If he erred too far to one side, he’d get attached, but leaning in the other direction would mean being rude and risking his uncle’s ire. It was difficult to say which would be worse.

“So…where did you come from?” Noctis asked, leading the way from the garage towards the convenience store with his eyes focused ahead. That was a normal question, right? He’d heard his uncle ask customers that all the time, so it couldn’t be too inappropriate.

Ignis, who had fallen into step beside him while Gladio trailed behind, was the one to answer, “We live in Insomnia. It’s not too far from here.”

_That’s where…_

“My teacher’s from there!”

“Your teacher?”

“Yeah, Crowe. She’s _cool_ ,” he bragged with a grin. _This_ was a subject he could talk about all day! “She stays for a few days and teaches me stuff. Reading’s hard, but math’s okay.”

“I, too, enjoy math,” Ignis agreed, smiling widely. “Numbers make more sense than words at times.”

Noctis grimaced. “I _know_. Like, they have rules. Letters don’t.”

“Not as many, no, and there are a lot of exceptions.”

It wasn’t often that Noctis preferred other people to speak for him, but he was grateful when Gladio snorted, “Little words, Specs.”

Frowning, Ignis paused for a moment before amending, “Apologies. The rules don’t always work.”

 _Why didn’t he just_ say _that?_ Noctis huffed internally, wanting to verbalize his thoughts but deciding it would be skirting the edge of politeness. Instead, he settled for, “ _Oh_ , right. That.”

Apparently, his discomfort must have shown through the façade he was attempting to present. Although he hadn’t said much since getting out of the car, Gladio caught on to it right away.

“Don’t mind him,” he grinned. Noctis _did not_ jump when Gladio clapped a hand on his shoulder. “He forgets we don’t all go to fancypants school like he does.”

“It’s not _fancypants school_ , Gladio,” grumbled Ignis, although the resignation in his tone indicated this was an argument they’d had before. Gladio’s smirk all but confirmed it.

“’Cept it totally is.”

“Is _not_.”

Leaning forward, he whispered in Noctis’s ear, “They learn how to set tables all fancy and sew buttons.”

“I can still hear you,” Ignis sighed, but Noctis’s open-mouthed attention was fully on Gladio.

“They teach stuff like that?”

“Yup.”

“But _why_?”

“’Cause it’s fancypants school,” Gladio shrugged as if that was all the explanation required.

Noctis frowned in confusion, wondering aloud, “So…fancy people sew buttons?”

“Well…” He trailed off, eyebrows furrowing as he struggled to come up with an adequate description. Ignis ended up lending him a hand.

“Part of what we learn is how to manage a household,” he elaborated primly. Noctis hadn’t realized they’d come to a stop until he gave Ignis his full attention and noticed for the first time just how _straight_ he stood. Was there a pole under his clothes? There _had_ to be. “We learn the same things you do with the addition of other subjects, like _cutlery placement_ ”—he shot a pointed glare at Gladio—“and garment repair.”

The latter hardly acknowledged his obvious irritation and instead snickered, “Table setting and sewing. Got it, Specs.”

As Ignis opened his mouth to deliver a scathing retort, Noctis couldn’t help thinking that perhaps his initial judgment of Gladio had been wrong. Yes, he still had that _look_ with his intimidating figure and confident stance, but his teasing wasn’t the same as the bullies from the stories. Ignis wasn’t _really_ upset about what he said (that Noctis could tell, anyway), and nobody had their face smooshed into the pavement yet. He’d even made a few jokes despite looking about as likely as Cor to do so at first.

Not that it mattered, because he wasn’t going to get attached. _Period_.

With that goal in mind, Noctis waited for a break in their bickering before quietly interjecting, “Wanna go to Takka’s? There’s video games there.”

“Sounds fun,” agreed Gladio, his smirk adopting a competitive edge Noctis wasn’t sure he liked the look of. “Gonna have to teach Specs how so we can cream ‘im.”

“I’ll have you know that I’m quite capable of playing a game _and winning_ without your assistance,” sniffed Ignis. It was hard not to laugh at the way his nose was comically tilted towards the sky, but fortunately his curiosity was ignited again as he set the pace towards Takka’s.

“How come you call him _Specs_?” inquired Noctis with a puzzled frown, to which Gladio offered him a shrug.

“’Cause he wears ‘em.”

“Uh…”

Ignis tapped his shoulder, pointed to his glasses, and explained, “Technically, they’re called _spectacles_. Hence…”

“Specs,” Noctis finished for him with a nod of understanding.

“It’s just a nickname. One that Gladio finds preferable to my real one,” he added, rolling his eyes for good measure. Maybe it was the fact that his exasperation was clearly feigned, but Noctis couldn’t help giggling a little and poking some fun of his own.

“He _could_ call you Iggy.”

Groaning, Ignis shook his head. “ _Don’t_ give him any ideas! He’ll just—Gladio?”

They paused, turning around to see that he’d stopped right next to the gas pumps with a devious grin on his face that immediately had Ignis holding up a finger in warning.

“Don’t.”

“But _Iggy_ —"

“I said _don’t_!”

“But it’s such a good one!”

Ignis didn’t bother replying to that. Instead he wrapped an arm around Noctis’s shoulders and led him in the opposite direction towards the diner, ignoring Gladio’s howling laughter behind them.

“When dealing with Gladio,” he huffed with a small smirk, “you’ll find it’s better to ignore him.”

Noctis nodded, although he doubted he’d need to remember it after they left. Still, he could at least play along for now, even if a twinge of sadness was waiting in his gut.

That, however, didn’t mean he was immune to the sudden burst of excitement that had him ducking out from under Ignis’s arm and dashing the rest of the way to Takka’s when he spotted a familiar figure right by the entrance.

“Nyx!”

His friend stopped with his foot on the first step, his surprise morphing into his usual warm smile as he knelt to let Noctis leap into his arms.

“Hey, there, little man.” Nyx gave him a good shake before pulling back to look him in the eye. “Didn’t think I’d see you today.”

“Me either,” he replied, so glad that that wasn’t the case. He hated when Nyx wasn’t working—it always made his days seem less fun. “But you’re here!”

Nodding, Nyx feigned the saddest expression Noctis had ever seen and sighed, “Yeah, looks like it was so busy today that Takka needed an extra pair of hands to pick up a few things. But hey,” he added, smirking suddenly, “I even brought your favorite.”

“Chocolate?” Noctis gasped. _That_ would make his day!

“Chocolate?” scoffed Nyx. He reached into a paper bag Noctis hadn’t noticed on the ground beside him. “No, I brought something even _better_ than that.”

Something better than chocolate? Impossible. He’d tried a lot of amazing things; the hunters would bring candy from different outposts that they slipped him when Uncle Cid wasn’t looking. Chocolate, though, had to be his favorite so far.

His face must have spoken for him, because Nyx didn’t wait for him to ask before pulling out something red and round and— _oh no!_

“Veggies!” he growled, yanking Noctis closer as though he was going to make him eat the whole thing right then and there.

Shrieking with laughter, he tried to both pull away and push the dreaded tomato further off to no avail. It was only by the grace of Nyx’s mercy that he was spared having to even _touch_ the bane of his existence—his hair, however, didn’t escape unscathed as it was tousled out of the neat style he’d managed _on his own_ today.

Noctis swatted at his hand and breathlessly giggled, “You’re _grooooss_!”

“Really?!” His eyes went wide in shock. “I thought I was Nyx!”

“Nuh uh. Now you’re gross.”

Shrugging, Nyx leaned back on his haunches and sighed, “Well, guess I’ll just have to live with that.” His eyes shifted to a spot over Noctis’s shoulder, which reminded him that they weren’t alone as he inquired, “ _So_ , who are your _friends_?”

It was hard to say what made Noctis more uncomfortable: the word he used or the _way_ he said it. Just like everyone else, Nyx was aware that there weren’t any other kids around Hammerhead; that was one of the reasons he’d started inviting Noctis to stay while he was cooking. He probably didn’t think Noctis knew, but it wasn’t difficult to figure out. They were friends, and Nyx wanted what was best for him. That meant he had to be thinking that this was a _good_ thing. The sparkle in his eyes definitely was.

Noctis’s expression immediately soured, and he turned away from where Cor’s nephews stood alongside them so that they wouldn’t notice. That was a much better way to think of them—if he got too comfortable with their names, he’d miss saying them more.

But it would be bad manners to ignore introductions, so he waved vaguely in their direction and muttered, “That’s Ignis and Gladio. Uncle Cid’s friends with their uncle.”

“Is that so?” he chuckled, extending a hand to them. “I’m Nyx. Welcome to Hammerhead.”

Gladio reached out to return the gesture, muttering something Noctis couldn’t make out. Ignis, however, abandoned his flawless propriety for once to frown down at the tomato Nyx had dumped back in the bag where it belonged. (Well, it actually belonged in the garbage, but he supposed _someone_ had to like those things.)

“Your produce is past its ripeness,” he mused, more curious than insulting. Noctis still frowned—that didn’t sound good.

Nyx didn’t appear offended, although his eyebrows did look like they might fly away as he murmured, “A five-year-old is critiquing my vegetables. That’s new.”

Ignis’s gaze snapped to him with a glare. “I’ll be eight in February.”

“How silly of me. I’ll try to remember that next time,” Nyx apologized, holding up his hands in surrender. The way he winked at Noctis when Ignis’s back was turned told him that he wasn’t upset, but Noctis had the perfect solution if he was.

“You can play video games with us if you want!” he suggested with a hopeful grin that deflated the second Nyx remorsefully shook his head.

“Sorry, little man, but it’s too busy in there today. Maybe next time?”

Pouting a little, Noctis reluctantly nodded his head with a tiny, “Okay…”

Nyx, however, was already on the rebound. “Hey, I’ve got an idea. How about you introduce these guys to Carbuncle?”

_What? No!_

“Why?” he asked with an unimpressed frown.

“You don’t think it would be a good idea to introduce your new friends to your _best_ friend?”

No, as a matter of fact, he _didn’t_. It sounded like a _terrible_ idea, because Noctis already knew what Carbuncle would say: that he should give them a chance and try to be friends even if it didn’t last. That was what he _always_ told Noctis, and every time, he had the same answer—that it was a _bad idea_. Noctis had plenty of people in his life who would be there for him no matter what; he didn’t need to try adding ones who wouldn’t.

Ultimately, he had no argument nor any time to think one up. Nyx had to get to work, and Ignis and Gladio were staring at him expectantly as though it was _his_ job to entertain them. Which…okay, it _was_ , but they could at least help a bit. The best he could do was lead them back towards the garage while asking Ignis if he knew a lot about food—which he apparently _did_ , because that was yet another thing they learned at fancypants school. He also mentioned that his uncle (a different one, not the one sitting around talking to Uncle Cid as they made their way up to the apartment) enjoyed cooking and had taught him a few things. Noctis decided to ignore his offer to cook for them one day, knowing that it was just wishful thinking on the latter’s part. There wouldn’t _be_ a _one day_.

It was still a nice gesture, though, so Noctis didn’t hold it against him. He wasn’t _trying_ to make him feel bad.

The moment they entered his room, Noctis plopped down on the bed and pulled Carbuncle into his lap. His best friend was immediately confused that he was joined by two unfamiliar faces, but there was an underlying excitement there that Noctis didn’t appreciate at all.

It morphed into indignation when Gladio nodded to him and asked, “Who’s the rat?”

“He’s not a rat!” Noctis automatically shot back, bristling. “He’s _Carbuncle_.”

“The Dream Guardian,” nodded Ignis, leveling Gladio with a warning glance when he looked like he was about to say something else. Noctis silently thanked him for that, even if he had no idea what he was talking about.

“Huh?”

“Carbuncle is the Dream Guardian,” he clarified as he came to sit on the edge of his bed. “That’s his gift from the Astrals.”

“The who?”

Ignis paused, staring at him with an odd expression. After a moment, he shrugged a shoulder and simply stated, “It’s a legend.”

A legend? Noctis liked those—Crowe read them to him all the time, although he’d never heard one about Carbuncle before. Hugging his friend beneath his chin, he whispered, “What kinda legend?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gladio walking over to examine his pocket watch where it hung against the wall, leaving Ignis to explain. Maybe stories weren’t really his thing.

“The legend states that there are gods who watch over us,” Ignis began after a moment of quiet contemplation, “and they let certain creatures use their powers. One is Carbuncle, the Dream Guardian.”

“So Carbuncle’s a _god_?” Noctis mused, utterly in awe. Ignis bit the corner of his lip in thought.

“Not _quite_ , but he can use their power.”

“Power?”

Nodding, he continued, “It’s said that the Dream Guardian keeps nightmares away from those most deserving of his help.”

“That makes sense!” exclaimed Noctis as he rocked Carbuncle from side to side. “I never have bad dreams!”

“Then you’re very lucky. You have your own Dream Guardian to protect you.”

Noctis beamed down at his best friend. “Yeah. I think so.”

Across the room, Gladio grunted before turning back to smirk at them. “Guess I’m in for a couple’a nightmares tonight, huh?”

Even Carbuncle laughed at that, so Noctis figured it was permission enough to forgive Gladio his transgression. To anyone who didn’t know, he supposed Carbuncle _would_ look a little like a rodent—but Noctis loved him anyway. Everyone who met him did, including Ignis, who patted him on the head in farewell when Uncle Cid called that it was time for them to go a few hours later.

That sinking sensation that Noctis always felt when new friends left immediately gripped the bottom of his stomach and pulled. He struggled to keep the disappointment off his face, though; it had, after all, been inevitable. No amount of sharing his toy cars or letting Ignis skim through his books or laughing when Gladio balanced Carbuncle on his back while he did a pushup changed the fact that they were leaving.

At least, not until Cor said the one thing that Noctis had _never_ heard from his uncle’s other customers.

“Same time next month, then?”

Uncle Cid nodded casually as if the world hadn’t just flipped upside down. “Already gotcha scheduled. We’ll see you ‘n’ the boys again in a few weeks.”

_They’re…coming back?_

Everything after that was a blur of numb elation—goodbyes, thank yous for their hospitality, promises to bring something for Noctis and Cindy next time. It was all but lost on him until long after the car pulled onto the road and disappeared from sight. That mingled disbelief and shock stuck with him even when Umbra found him later, sitting outside the garage with his eyes locked on the street as if the weeks might have passed in the span of a blink.

What finally drew him from his trance wasn’t the cold nose to his temple or the strange coin his canine companion pushed into the side of his shoe, the spoils of a treasure hunt he’d never gotten to finish. Instead it was the thought that in a month’s time, he would have friends to share it with.


	8. Brotherhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! As always, I just want to pop in to tell you guys how much I appreciate you reading and the feedback you leave. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“Hey, Crowe?”

“Hey, Noctis?”

Giggling, he squirmed further under the covers and shoved Carbuncle into the path of the hand that sought to mess up his hair. The move saved Noctis, but his best friend didn’t fare so well, squawking indignantly when Crowe gave him a tousle instead. Despite the fuss he made, however, Noctis knew it was all for show: Carbuncle liked Crowe, just as he was fond of everyone else in their lives. He’d been shy those first few months when she stayed to read them a bedtime story, hiding beneath the blankets until she left; on those nights, Noctis always plied him with hugs after the neglect he suffered. It was a relief that they had finally met and come around to each other—Noctis didn’t have to feel bad for paying less attention to his friend than his teacher anymore.

Besides, he was growing accustomed to having company for their stories, which was fortunate since Carbuncle was the one who reminded him of the coin that had slipped his mind for the last two weeks.

“There’s something I wanna show you!” he exclaimed, tossing off his blankets once the danger had passed. Crowe shot him an amused yet stern look before his feet even touched the floor.

“It’s already past your bedtime, you know.”

“But it’s important!”

“Oh, yeah?”

Noctis nodded emphatically. “I gotta show you _now_ or I’ll forget again.”

Folding her arms, Crowe surveyed him through narrowed eyes for a seemingly endless moment. He wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for—maybe some indication that he was just trying to avoid going to bed, which _wasn’t true_ —but she eventually gave up with a sigh of defeat.

“Okay, but let’s make this quick. I don’t want to have to be the one to explain to your uncle why you’re not awake tomorrow morning.”

Honestly, Noctis didn’t hear much after Crowe’s reluctant approval. He was already sprinting across the chilly floor to his dresser and pulling open the drawer where he’d stashed the loot from his last treasure hunt. He’d reminded himself repeatedly over the last couple of weeks to ask Crowe about the coin (which _definitely_ wasn’t a gil—Uncle Cid could assure him of that much), but every chance he got was usually squandered with other distractions. His curiosity about the artifact frequently took backseat to the pervasive memories of what else had happened that day, and as soon as he recalled _that_ , his mysterious treasure was inevitably forgotten.

Now, however, he finally had the opportunity he’d been hoping for!

Scurrying back to his bed, Noctis hopped up and crawled the rest of the way across with the coin held firmly in his outstretched hand.

“What’s this?” he asked without preamble. The last thing he needed was for something else to come up and divert his attention.

Crowe frowned as she took his treasure and turned it over to examine both sides. When she glanced back up at him, her expression was inscrutable.

“Where’d you find this?”

“ _Umbra_ found it,” clarified Noctis, “behind the garage.”

“Is that right?” she mused, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

“Uh huh. We were treasure hunting.”

Nodding, Crowe took a seat on the bed beside him. “Well, you definitely scored big this time.”

His eyes went wide. They’d found _actual_ treasure?

“Really?!”

“Really. This thing’s a pretty popular collectible. Most people would pay a few gil for it.”

Noctis didn’t like the sound of that—it was _his_ treasure, no one else’s. Maybe he could share it with Umbra and Carbuncle, but they were the _only_ ones.

Choosing to ignore the coin’s apparent value, he scooted closer to look over her shoulder as he inquired, “What’s a collible?”

“ _Collectible_ ,” Crowe repeated slowly. It was a habit of hers to correct him immediately, which she claimed would keep him from getting used to saying things the wrong way. That didn’t mean Noctis refrained from rolling his eyes a little when she prompted him, “ _Call_.”

“Call,” he echoed impatiently.

“ _Eck_.”

“Eck.”

“ _Tih._ ”

“Tih.”

“ _Bull_.”

“Bull.”

“Call-eck.”

Sighing, Noctis chanted, “Call-eck.”

“Tih-bull.”

“Tih-bull.”

“Collectible.”

“Colle… C-Collect-tible.”

Offering him a quick high five, Crowe praised, “There you go. Now, a collectible is something special that people like to find and keep.”

“Like Carbuncle?” he asked, grabbing his best friend’s paw and dragging him in close. Crowe squinted at him for a moment before shrugging uncertainly.

“Not really the same thing. You _have_ Carbuncle, but if you _collected_ him then you’d have more than one.”

Noctis shook his head, countering, “There’s only _one_ Carbuncle.”

“As far as you know, sure,” she agreed. “Haven’t really seen anything like him before, but I guess it’s possible that there are others somewhere.”

_What? No way!_

The idea of more Carbuncles existing, cuddling with other kids and telling _them_ what great friends they were, didn’t sit right with Noctis. He wasn’t selfish: if someone else needed him, he usually wouldn’t mind sharing Carbuncle. Well, as long as he was there to supervise— _no one_ was allowed near his best friend without his permission and presence. Regardless, Carbuncle was special, not some mass-produced toy like his cars and blocks and books. If there were others, he didn’t want to know; he liked believing that his friend was the only one of his kind.

“So,” he guessed, distracting himself from such unsettling thoughts, “if I had lots of Carbuncles, he’d be a coll-collectible?”

Crowe nodded. “Exactly. Or if there weren’t very many of him and lots of people wanted him.”

_They can’t have him_ , he huffed inwardly. If she noticed his disdain, she chose not to comment and instead lifted the coin until it reflected the light from his small lamp across the room. When Umbra brought it to him, it was grimy with dust and oil; Uncle Cid had cleaned it up, and now it was so shiny that Noctis could have mistaken it as brand new.

“ _This_ is a _very_ special collectible,” Crowe murmured in explanation, examining every minute detail. “It’s called an Oracle Ascension Coin.”

Noctis didn’t even bother trying to say that—he knew it would just end in another annoying pronunciation lesson, one that would take much longer than he really felt like spending when there were far more pressing questions to be answered.

“What’s a Oracle?”

Poking his nose, she corrected, “ _An_ Oracle. In this case, _the_ Oracle. There’s only one at a time.”

“How come?”

“Because the Oracle uses special magic. It would be bad if more than one person could do her job.”

_Special powers_? Somehow, this conversation was beginning to feel oddly familiar. Perhaps that was what made Noctis inquire, “Kinda like Carbuncle?”

An odd look passed over Crowe’s face when she replied, “Yeah, like the real Carbuncle. Didn’t know your uncle told you about him.”

“He didn’t, Ignis did!” exclaimed Noctis with a grin. “He’s really smart and goes to a special school and stuff. He said Carbuncle’s the Dream Guardian. He keeps bad dreams away!”

For the last two weeks, Noctis had tried not to mention Ignis or Gladio whenever possible. As excited as he was that they were coming back, his brain still harbored that niggling worry that it wouldn’t happen; he couldn’t help imagining that he’d sit around waiting only for the days to pass without ever seeing them again. It wouldn’t be the end of the world—he’d been in that position more than once, and life went on. That didn’t make it any easier to consider, though.

He had, at the very least, described his two prospective friends to Crowe the first day he had school after they visited. She had been of the same mind as Nyx—that this was a _good thing_ for him, and that being around other kids his age would be a _great opportunity_. He hoped he’d have a chance to find out if they were right.

It appeared that Crowe was already impressed with Ignis, and they hadn’t even met! Her expression cleared instantly, and she answered, “Well, he’s got that right. There are others like Carbuncle, though. They’re called _mages_.”

“Mages,” he imitated, smiling shyly when she nodded in approbation. “Do they stop bad dreams too?”

“No, every mage does something different.”

“ _Wow_! Like what?”

“Let’s see… There’s a Messenger that passes on what the gods want people to do,” replied Crowe, holding up a hand to count off on her fingers. “Then there’s Carbuncle, but you know about him. And the Oracle can heal people who are sick or hurt.”

“That’s _cool_ ,” whispered Noctis in awe. There was one thing that didn’t make any sense, though. “But how come the Oracle didn’t fix Uncle Cid when he got sick?”

For some reason, that made Crowe laugh. He didn’t understand why: his uncle had been absolutely miserable when he came down with the flu a few months prior, so the Oracle’s powers would have been a major help. Noctis and Cindy had done what they could, but neither of them were able to maintain the garage all on their own. So, it had been a long week of listening to him whine about his aching bones and waiting on him until he felt better. Noctis had even let him snuggle with Carbuncle for a while, although the latter only grudgingly agreed to the idea— _he_ didn’t want to get sick either.

“The Oracle can’t heal _everyone_ , especially not now,” Crowe added under her breath. The crease between her eyebrows made her look sad—or maybe angry.

“How come?” he prompted her tentatively.

She didn’t answer right away. As always, she glanced over at him with that same calculating expression that indicated she was trying to figure out how best to respond. Noctis considered himself lucky: it was so far past his bedtime that he was surprised Uncle Cid hadn’t come in to remind them, but Crowe wasn’t avoiding the question just to get him to sleep. _Yet_.

Seeming to make to a decision, she abruptly asked, “Do you have that book of maps I gave you?”

Noctis blinked at the non-sequitur. “Yeah…?”

“Go grab it. It’ll be easier to explain.”

Well, _that_ didn’t sound very appealing. Noctis enjoyed seeing where other parts of the world were compared to Hammerhead, but knowing that it was so much bigger than his book always made things more confusing. Still, he obeyed and retrieved the atlas, which Crowe opened in her lap once he was settled next to her again.

“So, the Oracle,” she began, putting her finger down on a spot of the map Noctis knew wasn’t in Lucis, “lives in a kingdom called Tenebrae.”

His face contorted in distaste, but he didn’t bother pointing out that the word looked like Tenebr- _ay_. He supposed this was just another example of the rules not applying, like Ignis said. Crowe smirked slightly—she had a sixth sense for knowing when reading frustrated him.

“Now, the old Oracle used to travel all over the world, healing as many people as she could. Usually she’d stick with more serious things than what your uncle had, but she might have helped him if she had the time. The Oracle’s a pretty hot commodity,” she whispered as if divulging the secrets of the universe. Noctis had no clue what that meant, but he assumed it must be important.

Turning back to the book, Crowe tapped her finger against the outline of Tenebrae and continued, “There’s a new Oracle now since the old one…passed away a few years ago.”

“That’s sad,” mumbled Noctis, remembering when Uncle Cid explained that _passed on_ was a nicer way of saying someone died. He pulled Carbuncle into his lap and hugged him tight as Crowe nodded.

“It is. The new Oracle is her daughter. She’s… I don’t know, nine? Not too much older than you. Anyway, it’s not like she can go places on her own, so it would’ve been a while before she came to Lucis. Besides…” She trailed off, frowning down at the map as though frustrated with what it was showing her. Noctis leaned forward to look but nope, it was the same as it had been before.

“Besides what?” he prompted when she appeared reluctant to add what was clearly on her mind. She glanced over at him momentarily before sighing and shifting her finger to the country next to Tenebrae.

“This place here—Niflheim,” she explained slowly and carefully. “It’s a very powerful empire.”

“What’s an empire?”

“It’s when one government runs lots of countries, usually because they conquered them. Took them over,” Crowe amended, rolling her eyes at herself.

Scoffing, Noctis yanked his mind away from thoughts of the bullies they’d read about in his storybooks and grumbled, “That’s not nice.”

It earned him a nudge to his shoulder. “No, it’s not. They’ve hated Lucis for a very long time, and Tenebrae has always been our friend. So…”

“They tooked it over to be mean to _us_!” Noctis cried indignantly. Why would anyone _do_ that?!

“ _Took_ ,” she muttered, turning back to the map. “And yeah, sort of. The Oracle’s family has a lot of power, just like she does. Controlling them means controlling a pretty big part of the world.”

That was… Noctis didn’t even have a word for it, so he fumed silently instead. Except for the scraps of information he gleaned from his uncle or the reporters on the news, he had no idea how countries and governments worked. What little he thought he understood never made any sense to him. Why couldn’t leaders talk about their problems and fix them the way he and Cindy did when they got on each other’s nerves? It was a lot easier than taking over countries and doing horrible things just so they could win some victory that ultimately made them the most hated in spite of all their power. He simply couldn’t fathom why anyone would make decisions like these, especially if it kept the Oracle from helping people.

“So, now the Oracle can’t leave?” he guessed, shaking his head angrily before Crowe had a chance to do more than nod. “That’s not _fair_!”

Something flashed in her eyes, and her gaze fully shifted to him when she answered, “There’s a lot of unfairness in this world, Noctis. You learn to live with it.”

“But—“

“I thought you wanted to know where _this_ came from,” interrupted Crowe, passing the coin back to him and depositing the book on his nightstand.

She was using his curiosity in an obvious attempt to change the subject—he knew it, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. So, with a grumpy shrug, he closed his fist tightly around his treasure and set aside his contempt. He could dwell on how stupid Niflheim was later.

Crowe seemed to understand and gave his shoulder another brief nudge before pointing to his fist and explaining, “When an Oracle starts using her powers, it’s called an ascension. There’s a big party, and everyone celebrates how special she is. They had one for the new Oracle last year.”

“Niflheim did?” he snorted in disbelief. She offered him an amused smirk.

“Not so much. It was a few weeks before they were… _appropriated_ ,” she replied, although Noctis was pretty sure she meant to say something else that he probably would have understood better. “Anyway, they handed out these coins as souvenirs after the party was over. They’re pretty rare, so you’re lucky you found one _here_ , of all places.”

The idea that his coin was an _actual_ , special treasure shoved all thoughts of evil empires out of his mind, and Noctis found himself grinning. Sensing the shift in his mood, Crowe appeared all too willing to press her advantage.

“You’ll want to take good care of that and keep it safe,” she warned as she ushered him back under the covers where he should have been a while ago.

Nodding hurriedly, he promised, “I will. I’ll hide it so no one finds it.”

“Good idea.” Tucking both Carbuncle and himself in, Crowe added, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll find more of them.”

Noctis’s eyes widened. “More?”

“That’s kind of the point of collectibles—to get as many as you can.”

“How?” If it was already so strange that he’d found one in _Hammerhead_ , he couldn’t imagine that there would be others just lying around waiting for him and Umbra to hunt them down.

Crowe hummed thoughtfully, her face breaking into a tiny smile as she suggested, “Try asking those new friends of yours from Insomnia. Big cities have junk like that all the time.”

“But they’re not _here_ ,” whined Noctis petulantly. Her chuckle at his plight was not at _all_ appreciated.

“Then I guess you’ll have to be patient,” she teased him, “just like your uncle when you tell him why you weren’t in bed on time.”

Groaning, Noctis buried his face in his pillow as though hiding it from Crowe would mean escaping Uncle Cid’s disappointment that he’d broken the rules. He wouldn’t be too mad— _hopefully_.

Noctis couldn’t bring himself to regret staying awake to get his answers, though, not when his bona fide _Oracle Ascension Coin_ winked at him in the moonlight streaming in through his window. He had a _real_ treasure—maybe he’d even be able to collect more!

Well, if Uncle Cid’s friend kept his word, anyway. He knew he shouldn’t get his hopes up, yet it was difficult not to. As his eyes grew heavy and finally began to close, all he could think about was the fun he would have with Ignis and Gladio when they came back— _if_ they came back.

And if they didn’t, he reminded himself for the hundredth time, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

It _wouldn’t_.

 

***

 

It _was_.

The days preceding Uncle Cid’s appointment with Cor dragged by as they drew closer to the occasion, and Noctis was an increasingly restless ball of energy with each passing hour. School went from exciting to nauseating; Crowe reminded him to pay attention more than once to no avail. Nyx noticed his preoccupation as well, although he was more amused by it than anything else.

“You excited?” he’d ask just about every morning while he cooked. The grin on his face made Noctis squirm in place, but he’d stuck to the same answer even though he knew Nyx must have stopped believing it a while ago.

“ _No_.”

And he wasn’t. At least, not entirely—there were still enough butterflies in his stomach to make his meals less appetizing and the hours stretch longer. By the time he went to bed the night before the objects of his anxiety were due to return, he was so nervous that he hardly slept. Instead he whispered with Carbuncle in the dark, the latter urging him to have faith because there was no way Ignis and Gladio wouldn’t want to come back when Noctis was such an amazing person. He didn’t quite see it himself, but it was still nice to hear.

Apparently, they agreed with him.

Friday dawned the same as any other day, yet Noctis felt like everything was different. Getting dressed, picking up breakfast, sitting on a stool in the garage with Carbuncle wrapped up in his arms—all of it was so surreal, as if weeks of waiting had made it impossible for the moment itself to arrive. It was here, though, and he spent all morning with one eye on the street and the other on the car Uncle Cid was working on. He’d poked fun at Noctis here and there, knowing it wasn’t often that he _willingly_ sat around the garage all day. All of his jokes and teasing went unanswered, however; when Noctis opened his mouth to reply, he had to close it again so the butterflies didn’t carry his breakfast out onto the floor.

Hours passed until the morning was gone and his lunch sat untouched on Uncle Cid’s workbench. In all that time, no sleek silver car pulled into Hammerhead. There were a few others, mostly people stopping for gas and some food, but otherwise things were quiet.

Uncle Cid eventually stopped throwing him looks and checking the clock. Even Carbuncle’s endless stream of reassurances that it was still early and they were probably just running late tapered off not long after.

_This_ was why he never bothered getting his hopes up—every time, it always ended the exact same way. Wherever they were, Ignis and Gladio had probably forgotten all about him. Maybe Ignis was sitting at his fancypants school, sewing buttons onto an old jacket; Gladio would be waiting for him to finish for the day so he could make fun of it all. Cor’s impressive car was most likely at a garage closer to where they lived, someplace that was easier to get to and did the work faster. The odds were good that they hadn’t thought about Noctis _once_ in the last month.

He _hated_ being right.

For a few minutes, he was torn. A large part of him just wanted to go upstairs and take a nap; after a month of waiting and getting little sleep the night before, he was exhausted. At the same time, he didn’t want to be alone. Carbuncle would be there to keep him company, but Noctis knew he’d want to make him feel better, which seemed impossible right now. It would only add guilt to his sadness to bring Carbuncle down with him, so he resigned himself to staring miserably at a flat tire in the corner that his uncle needed to toss out back. Noctis thought he knew how it felt.

His mood must have radiated across the garage, because it was only a few minutes later when he heard metal scraping against the floor and heavy boots approaching. Before he could drag his eyes away from his rubber counterpart, Noctis was lifted off the stool to make way for Uncle Cid and pulled into his lap.

“What’s that long face’a yours for?” he asked quietly, bouncing Noctis on his knee.

There weren’t any words for what he was feeling, so he simply shrugged and leaned into his uncle’s shoulder. With his head tucked under Uncle Cid’s chin and Carbuncle pressed to his face, Noctis could pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist for a few minutes.

His uncle’s chest vibrated with a deep hum. “Ain’t gotta be like that, now.”

Whether he was reprimanding Noctis or not, he wasn’t stingy with his hug. This was the other reason he hadn’t retreated to his room: Uncle Cid’s hugs were the _best_ kind. Even on the rare occasion that Noctis broke a rule and had to endure whatever punishment was forthcoming (usually a meal full of vegetables with no dessert, which was the cruelest fate he could imagine), he knew that he could count on a huge, warm, tight embrace that had him smiling again in no time.

Today was a different situation. Instead of assuaging his disappointment and bringing a smirk to his lips, all his uncle’s affection managed to do was loosen the lump in his throat.

“They didn’t come back,” he croaked into Carbuncle’s fur. It muffled his voice enough to hopefully hide the way it cracked a little at the end.

“Oh, is _that_ what you’re fussin’ ‘bout?” chuckled his uncle. “Cor’s a busy man. Reckon he’s got plenty to do and got held up, ‘s all.”

Noctis whined a little but didn’t reply this time. There wasn’t much to say in response to platitudes that were just meant to delay the disappointment that was already gripping him. The day was passing quickly now; soon enough, his uncle would be closing the garage for the night. If Cor _was_ running late, which he doubted, then there wasn’t much time for him to get here before Uncle Cid would have to turn him away. Would he even bother at that point? Would he just find someplace else to do the work for him, or would it be worth it to come back another day? He was friends with Uncle Cid, so perhaps there was at least _some_ chance of the latter, but Noctis didn’t dare to latch onto the possibility the way he did his uncle’s shirt. Hope was treacherous and fickle and had turned the last month into a blur of emotions and dreams that would likely never come to fruition in the real world. He couldn’t keep doing that, not when there were other things for him to focus on—school, his family, the friends he _did_ have and who would always be there for him. Noctis could allow himself this moment of weakness today when there was nothing else to hold his attention, but tomorrow, he needed to move on. Harboring some distant, doomed faith in a person he didn’t know wasn’t the way to achieve that goal. His uncle was counting on him to do his best and act like a big kid—he couldn’t let him down.

That realization was what kept Noctis’s tears from falling despite how Carbuncle whispered that it would be okay if they did. Big kids didn’t cry; they didn’t whine about something that wasn’t going to happen. They held their chins up and walked tall—that was what Uncle Cid used to tell him when he’d get upset over a stubbed toe or spilled glass of juice. Then he’d ask what Noctis wanted to be: a little kid or a big kid. He always chose the second option without a moment’s hesitation.

Noctis wanted to be a big kid, just like Ignis and Gladio.

Shaking that thought from his head, he burrowed deeper into his uncle’s embrace. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been sitting there, but he felt no inclination to move.

Nor did Uncle Cid, it seemed. Usually, he would take a quick break before returning to what he was doing, yet he appeared perfectly content to sit and rock him back and forth until Noctis thought he might drift off to sleep. He should have felt guilty about it—Uncle Cid had work to do. It was one of their slower days, which was why he hadn’t been averse to sending Cindy to help Takka with some cleaning, but there was plenty to be done around the garage. Noctis was keeping him from his job, and that wasn’t fair to his uncle. Still, he wanted to be a little selfish and hold his attention, at least for a few more minutes. It was too warm and nice in his arms to think about moving just yet.

Hovering on the cusp of consciousness, he only distantly registered Uncle Cid rotating them towards the door with an amused, “Well, would’ja look at that.”

Noctis whimpered, snuggling closer and chasing his nap. With a fond chortle, his uncle leaned down to whisper in his ear, “Looks like you shouldn’t count your chocobos ‘fore they hatch.”

It took a moment for him to understand what he was talking about, but when he did, all thoughts of sleep vanished. Noctis’s head whipped up from where he’d been using Carbuncle as a pillow, and he peered outside through bleary eyes to see a familiar silver car turning in from the street.

“Well?” Uncle Cid asked as he stood, carrying Noctis with him. The added weight made him groan, but he masked it with a laugh when Carbuncle’s ear poked him in the eye. “Wha’d I tell you?”

Although he knew he had his uncle’s full attention, Noctis still tugged on the collar of his shirt before excitedly whispering, “They’re _here_.”

“They _are_.”

“They came back!”

“They _did_ , just like I said,” he snorted with mock offense. “This ol’ bag of bones is smarter than ‘e looks.”

“You look smart,” argued Noctis, pecking a kiss to his cheek as if that would convince him. Instead, Uncle Cid just barked a laugh.

“Uh huh, now you’re just kissin’ up. Gonna have to try harder’n that, boy.”

A prodding finger tickling his stomach cut off his reply, but he made a mental note to speak with Carbuncle about it later. As smart as Crowe was about lots of things, it made him sad to think that his uncle didn’t believe he was just as knowledgeable. Noctis’s teacher probably wouldn’t be able to run the garage all by herself; she’d even told him once that when it came to cars, she understood them about as well as Noctis did. Plus, it was Uncle Cid who’d chosen her to be his tutor in the first place— _that_ showed how smart he was all by itself. If he had to try harder to make his uncle feel better, he’d do it in a heartbeat!

For now, however, there were other matters that required both their attention. Uncle Cid carried him outside as Cor slid out of the car, his default severe expression softening into something a little friendlier when he apologized for being late.

“Not a problem,” Uncle Cid interrupted him dismissively. “Ain’t got no other customers today, so you’re doin’ me a favor.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Cor mused, “I find it unlikely that _you_ would have no business for an hour let alone a full day.”

“Got plenny’a business. Deadlines is all a ways off.”

“Guess I’m in luck, then.”

Uncle Cid huffed haughtily. “Darn right. I ain’t got time for just anybody.”

Based on the look Cor shot him, it was obvious that he and Noctis were equally skeptical. It was rare that his uncle ever turned _anyone_ away, no matter how far behind he was or how many vehicles he still had left to work on. If you brought your car to the garage, he’d find a place to put it until he had a chance to get it fixed up.

“Good thing you showed up when you did,” he continued before either of them had a chance to openly contradict him. “Noctis ‘n’ I were wonderin’ if you’d make if ‘fore we close up for the day.”

Cor’s face shifted back into the contrite expression he’d worn earlier as he opened the rear door and stood aside for Gladio to hop out. The latter lifted his hand in a wave but didn’t wait for Noctis to return the gesture, immediately ducking back inside. He could hear frantic whispering until Cor drowned it out.

“I’m afraid there was some urgent business to attend to this morning,” he murmured with a significant glance at Uncle Cid, who nodded in automatic acceptance.

“Hope it ain’t nothin’ too serious.”

Noctis watched the two of them, perplexed at the sudden tension in the air. It looked like they were holding an entire conversation with just their eyes, one that he wasn’t able to understand. He _hated_ when adults did that, as if kids couldn’t see what they were doing. The standard answer whenever he voiced his curiosity was always that he would find out when he was older, which was beginning to feel like an excuse.

It turned out that he was distracted from their verbal _and_ nonverbal discussion, however, because Ignis and Gladio were practically falling all over themselves to pull a huge canvas bag out of the back of the car with them. He didn’t think it would be an exaggeration to say that it was half his size, perhaps more. The sack was so large that even Gladio had a difficult time lifting it by himself; he needed every bit of Ignis’s help to drag it down to the ground.

Eyebrows raised in surprise, Uncle Cid cast Noctis a puzzled frown and inquired, “What’s that y’all got there?”

“The boys thought they would extend a gesture of gratitude and apology,” Cor answered for them. His expression was so comically flat that Noctis had to bite his tongue to refrain from laughing.

Gladio wasn’t quite as amused and crossed his arms with a grumpy, “ _One_ of us did."

The glare Ignis shot him was scathing, but there wasn’t enough heat in it to indicate that he was truly upset. Admittedly, Noctis wasn’t sure whether that was because he hadn’t taken offense to his retort or if he was simply too out of breath to muster more aggravation. Either way, he shrugged off the insinuation with the same grace as he’d held himself during their last visit.

Straightening his glasses where they were perched askew on the bridge of his nose, he spared no time for pleasantries before blurting out, “If it’s quite convenient, I require the use of your kitchen.”

“What Ignis is _trying_ to say,” interjected Cor, one hand on his nephew’s shoulder to calm his frustration, “is that he would like to practice a recipe he learned at school for you and the kids.”

“We’ve arrived so late that there won’t be enough time for you to prepare a meal,” Ignis took over with an air that made him seem more like an adult than someone only a couple of years older than Noctis.

Uncle Cid must have felt the same way, because he spent a long time just staring at Ignis as though he’d grown a carburetor and needed repairs. When the latter showed no signs of backing down, he guffawed incredulously but shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, can’t promise there’s much up there y’all can use, but you’re welcome to it.”

His approval sparked a grin across Ignis’s face, and he immediately whipped around to grab the handle of the bag with strict orders for Gladio to assist him. Before he could do more than scrunch up his face in distaste, Cor stepped between them and lifted the sack with one hand.

_Show-off._

 “I’ll see to it they don’t make a mess, Cid,” he sighed, Ignis already leading the way to the garage with determination in every step.

Chuckling, his uncle waved off his assurance with a quick, “Ain’t much to make a mess _with_. They’re a’right.”

“Yeah,” agreed Noctis, excited at the prospect of something that _wasn’t_ from Takka’s for a change. “Uncle Cid doesn’t cook.”

Cor raised an eyebrow in amusement just as his uncle opened his mouth, but Ignis beat both of them to the punch with a sniff. “I noticed from the state of your cupboards last time. We brought everything I’ll need.”

That…was a bit unnerving. Noctis frowned, racking his brains to remember whether Ignis had even _been_ in the kitchen let alone had an opportunity to go through their pantry. Nothing was forthcoming.

If it bothered Uncle Cid to hear that a seven-year-old stranger had been pawing through their food stores, he hid it well behind a façade of exasperation. 

“You gonna go givin’ ‘way all my secrets,” he growled playfully. Noctis shouted when his uncle’s arm disappeared from beneath him, locking his arms around his neck to keep from falling. Uncle Cid wouldn’t do that even if he _was_ mad, though, and caught him half a second later with a grunt. “Oh, my achin’ back…”

“Losing your touch?” inquired Cor innocently. Uncle Cid leveled him with a glare, lowering Noctis to the ground.

“I’m just as fit as ever.”

“Clearly.”

With a grunt of feigned irritation, his uncle made a gesture with his fingers that immediately wiped the smirk off Cor’s face. He did that on occasion, usually to a customer’s back when he was sure they weren’t looking. Noctis had yet to figure out what it meant, but given the reaction it usually garnered and the way Cor was glaring pointedly between his uncle and himself, he assumed it wasn’t very nice.

“All right, then,” his uncle grumbled, ignoring his friend’s teasing and patting Noctis’s shoulder. “Why don’t you run along ‘n’ help with whatever needs doin’. Y’all just be sure you don’t burn down my garage while you’re at it.”

Ignis’s mouth dropped open in a scandalized scowl that had a giggle bubbling up from Noctis’s throat. He hid it in Carbuncle’s fur, though, determined _not_ to get on his new friend’s bad side so soon after the excitement of realizing that they’d returned. It appeared that Ignis was willing to overlook the suggestion that he would be capable of setting any fires that he didn’t intentionally light, although whether that was due to Cor’s presence or the manners that seemed to have been ingrained in him from his fancypants school was unclear. Either way, he stomped up the stairs with a grinning Gladio at his heels.

Noctis darted forward to catch up, Uncle Cid muttering something about getting the car inside _while he was still young_. (He wasn’t, but Noctis wouldn’t hurt his feelings by pointing that out.) Cor waited for him to get a head start before following suit with his load. It was a good thing, too, because Noctis nearly tumbled back downstairs when he tripped over a step and landed on all fours. Well, all _threes_ —he wasn’t about to drop Carbuncle! Instead of the face full of concrete he would have gotten on his own, it took a second for him to realize that an arm had shot out to catch him around his middle almost before he’d known he was falling.

“Easy there,” Cor ordered, maneuvering him onto his feet. “Take your time or you’ll hurt yourself.”

Noctis paused long enough to mumble an embarrassed apology and continued to climb more carefully, very much aware of the eyes on his back. Despite the way his cheeks were turning red at the fact that he’d fallen in front of his uncle’s friend, he was awed at how fast Cor’s reflexes had been. Uncle Cid was pretty quick, but he never could have caught Noctis like that, especially not when one of his hands was busy holding onto a bag that was straining at the seams. He vaguely remembered his uncle mentioning earlier that Cor was always busy and wondered distantly if maybe he was a policeman or a firefighter where he came from. Perhaps he saved people every day; it would explain how he could react so quickly.

It would also explain why his expression was always so _serious_ , even when he was teasing Uncle Cid. They didn’t get a lot of police officers passing through Hammerhead, but if they were all like the ones Noctis had seen on the news at the diner, smiles weren’t really their thing. Nyx said that was because they were constantly alert, examining their surroundings so that they would be prepared for anything that might happen when most people would panic. He supposed that described Cor pretty well—serious and observant, but not unkind. It didn’t make any sense that a police officer would be mean when it was their job to help people, right?

And Cor _definitely_ wasn’t mean. When they entered the apartment to find Ignis waiting impatiently by the stove with Gladio perched on the counter beside him, he set the bag carefully on a chair at the table and began unloading so that they wouldn’t have to do it themselves. He stayed while Ignis double checked everything, probably making extra sure that they hadn’t forgotten an ingredient or utensil in the car, and only left them to their own devices once he’d issued strict instructions to come get him or Uncle Cid if they had any trouble whatsoever.

“He’s cool,” Noctis announced once he was gone. Ignis offered a hum of agreement, too busy inspecting— _were those tomatoes_?!

“Yeah, Cor’s pretty awesome,” shrugged Gladio. Maybe he was just so used to his uncle that it didn’t strike him as anything out of the ordinary, but it wasn’t every day that one of Uncle Cid’s customers showed much interest in them beyond simply making small talk. The change was refreshing, even exciting when he remembered that this might become a more regular occurrence.

Noctis was about to voice that opinion—or, really, probe to see if Cor intended to return like last time—when Gladio’s words replayed in his head.

“How come you don’t call him _Uncle_ Cor?” he asked, frowning.

That caught Ignis’s attention. He and Gladio exchanged a quick glance that was eerily similar to the one Uncle Cid had shared with Cor earlier.

Maybe it wasn’t a grown-up thing after all. Was that normal for people who spent a lot of time together? Noctis and Carbuncle had been inseparable for so long that they frequently finished each other’s sentences, but that was sort of necessary: nobody could hear him the way Noctis could, so translating was the only way he was able to communicate with other people. (Noctis secretly believed that Carbuncle only pretended to speak a language no one else could understand in the hopes that it would make him feel special. Whether he did or not, it worked.) Other than him, Noctis didn’t really have anyone like that—someone who would look at him and share their thoughts without ever having to utter a word.

His awkward shuffling must have alerted his companions to his discomfort, because Ignis shot him an apologetic smile and tentatively explained, “We both have a… _lot_ of uncles.”

“Right,” Gladio jumped in. “Just easier not to say _uncle_ all the time.”

“The title grows tiresome.”

“He means old.”

“Yes, that.”

“So…” Noctis trailed off, plopping into a chair with Carbuncle propped on his lap. “You guys have lots of family…people?”

“Members,” amended Ignis for him— _that_ was apparently going to be a _thing_. He busied himself with ferrying food across the small kitchen from the table to the counter and was only half paying attention to the conversation when he added, “Gladio has many family members.”

His cousin grunted, frowning at the realization that the ball had been passed to him. “Yeah, some.”

“Like, moms and dads?” asked Noctis curiously. He was working hard to keep his voice from sounding _too_ anxious to hear the answer, but knowing that they had such large families sparked a thirst in him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. None of his friends talked about their parents; Nyx said his had died years ago, and Cindy’s had before she was old enough to remember them. There were so many questions that had been swirling around his head—did parents act like Uncle Cid? What was it like having _two_ parents instead of just one? What if only one of their parents liked them and the other didn’t? Did that even _happen_?

He was so lost in the flurry of queries that wanted to come pouring out of his mouth that he hardly noticed the uncomfortably stiff set of Ignis’s shoulders as he grasped the pot they’d brought tightly with both hands. There was a flush to his cheeks that caught Noctis’s eye a moment later, however, and he glanced questioningly at Gladio when the former didn’t offer any response.

“Iggy’s mom and dad…” He cleared his throat awkwardly, and while Noctis would have been flattered any other time to hear Gladio use the nickname he’d thought up, his chest felt heavy with a guilt he didn’t entirely understand. “They, uh…”

“They were in an accident,” Ignis brusquely interjected, setting the pot down on the stove with a little more force than was necessary. The resulting _clang_ echoed in the silence.

Noctis blinked back the tears that suddenly sprang up in his eyes and whispered, “’M sorry.”

For a minute, Ignis didn’t say anything. All Noctis could think was that he’d messed this up and they hadn’t even been here that long. Friends weren’t supposed to make each other sad—they were supposed to laugh together and make each other smile. Ignis…wasn’t smiling. If anything, he looked like he was trying to hide whatever he _was_ feeling beneath his usual calm expression. Carbuncle murmured quietly that he hadn’t done anything wrong, but Noctis still felt terrible for bothering to open his big mouth.

Time seemed to stretch, content to let them stew in their tension for a while, until Ignis finally sighed and shook his head.

“It was a long time ago,” he mumbled, forcing a smile for Noctis’s benefit. It _almost_ looked genuine. “I hardly remember them.”

Swallowing hard, Noctis nodded his head and tried to think of something he could say to remedy the situation rather than dig himself a deeper hole. All he came up with was, “I don’t remember my mom ‘n’ dad neither.”

“ _Either_ ,” grumbled Gladio. He immediately rolled his eyes at himself despite the approving smirk Ignis sent his way before turning back to Noctis.

“I suppose we’re not so different, then,” he sighed sympathetically.

The tender moment didn’t last: if the slight downturn at the corners of Ignis’s lips was anything to go by, he wasn’t a fan of airing his emotions. It may also have been that he didn’t like standing idly, given the way he automatically set about dragging a chair closer to the counter to stand on, but the former seemed more likely. Noctis could relate to that; he frequently kept his thoughts to himself so that he didn’t upset Uncle Cid or Cindy. There were only so many times he could witness one or both of their faces falling in light of a question he’d asked before he decided that it just wasn’t worth it. Whether Ignis had the same reasons or otherwise, Noctis didn’t know, but he drew in a deep breath that seemed to return him to his normal, straight-laced self.

“In any case,” he sniffed once his back was set in its formal, upright position, “ _Gladio’s_ parents are always nearby. It’s almost like having my own.”

That made Gladio laugh. “Yeah, ‘cept my dad works _all the time_.”

_He’s always busy, too?_

If that was the case, that must mean… “Does Cor work with your dad?” Noctis blurted out, trying and failing to drag his attention away from where Ignis was currently chopping tomatoes into little cubes. He _really_ didn’t like the look of this…

“Uh… Yeah, they work together,” Gladio confirmed with a nod.

“That’s neat!”

“I guess.”

Maybe it was pushing his luck, but Noctis decided to prod a little further and asked, “Are they both policemen?”

Gladio blinked at him once—twice—then Ignis firmly replied, “Yes. Of a sort.”

“ _Wow_ ,” he muttered, more to himself than his companions. The satisfaction of knowing that his guess was spot on didn’t quite break through the well of disappointment in his gut. It felt like their lives were so interesting, and he didn’t even know the half of it. Unlike him, they probably went on adventures all the time or heard Gladio’s dad and Cor talking about the ones they had at work. Living in a world like that, he couldn’t imagine that they’d think hunters were the sort of heroes that Noctis believed them to be.

It only plucked harder at his heartstrings when Ignis dumped the disgusting red cubes of death into the pot and told him, “They just added a new member to Gladio’s family.”

That was a simple enough statement, but to Gladio, it was like Ignis had just said they weren’t having dessert to wash down whatever disgusting _vegetable_ -fueled meal he was cooking up. The incongruous reaction was enough to pull Noctis out of the doldrums, not that he had any idea what they were talking about.

Seeing the blank expression on his face, Gladio rolled his eyes and clarified, “My parents had a baby.”

_Oh. Ew._

“That’s…cool,” Noctis replied carefully. It didn’t seem like something Gladio was happy about, but having a sibling would be fun…right?

Apparently not.

“It’s a _girl_ ,” he groused impatiently. Arms folded over his chest, he muttered something under his breath that made Ignis snort.

Noctis waited a moment to see if he would repeat himself before eloquently wondering, “Huh?”

Ignoring Gladio’s glare, Ignis chortled, “He thought it would be a brother.”

“For _months_!”

“Yes,” he tutted in mock sympathy, “for _months_ , he thought it would be a brother only to get a sister.”

“Sucks.” Gladio glowered at the simmering pot Ignis was pouring broth into as though it had personally insulted him and half his family.

Frowning, Noctis inquired, “Why’s that bad?”

“Be _cause_ , it’s just… Like, you can’t… It’s not…” Growling a little, Gladio huffed out an aggravated sigh and cried, “She’s a _girl_!”

Ignis glanced sidelong at him and translated, “Which, in his vocabulary, means _boring_.”

Gladio scoffed at the idea but didn’t even attempt to deny it. “Well, _yeah_. Girls just sit around and brush their hair ‘n’ junk.”

“Cindy doesn’t do that,” Noctis contradicted him right away. Yeah, girls were weird, but Cindy was always happiest with her hands inside an engine bay. He figured she proved not _all_ girls were like that, although he admittedly didn’t really _know_ any besides her and Crowe.

Shrugging, Gladio loftily declared, “Most of them _do_.”

“He says that like he’s met every girl in the world,” muttered Ignis so quietly that Noctis almost didn’t hear him. It didn’t escape his cousin’s attention either.

“Y’know what, maybe I _don’t_ want a brother if he’d be like _you_ ,” grumbled Gladio.

Ignis took approximately _no_ offense to that whatsoever and deadpanned, “I’m injured. Truly.”

Gladio, of _course_ , couldn’t let that stand, and Noctis shared an amused look with Carbuncle while the two of them sniped back and forth the same way he and Cindy did. Regardless of his knowledge that they were cousins (he was a bit shaky on what that meant), there were plenty of days when he forgot that entirely and thought of her like his sister. He could list a ton of differences between them, just like Ignis and Gladio, yet they shared that connection. At least Cor’s nephews were closer in age—he couldn’t imagine Gladio would get tired of playing with Ignis so much as the exact opposite.

Without thinking, Noctis heard himself say, “You guys are like brothers,” before he could stop himself.

Just like that, their bickering stalled out and two pairs of eyes were trained on him in mingled humor and surprise. Had no one told them that before? Noctis found it difficult to believe, but the way they glanced at each other in something akin to disbelief made him wonder. They didn’t argue with him, though; Ignis didn’t even pause in stirring the pot, although some suspiciously red liquid sloshed out to sizzle on the stovetop.

“Mm, well, guess it could be worse,” Gladio eventually admitted, avoiding Ignis’s eyes to smirk at Noctis. “ _You_ gotta put up with him now, too.”

His heart skipped a beat, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to get his hopes up when he asked, “How come?”

“Cor has decided to bring his car here every month for…for…” Ignis hesitated. When Noctis leaned to the side to see his face, his eyes were squinted almost shut. It took a few seconds for his expression to clear, an excited grin replacing his frustration. “ _Maintenance_.”

“Way to go, Specs,” snorted Gladio sarcastically.

“Thank you.”

“So, wait…” Noctis gaped at them both, hardly daring to believe his ears. “You guys are gonna be here lots?”

“ _A_ lot,” Ignis automatically corrected him at the same time as Gladio replied, “Yup.”

Carbuncle was kind enough not to say _I told you so_ , but Noctis could tell from his smug grin that he was thinking it all the same. It was the kind of victory that deserved a hug and would have earned him one under any other circumstances. Right now, however, Noctis couldn’t seem to find enough feeling in his arms to wrap them around his best friend. It wasn’t until Gladio leapt down from the counter and approached to lightly punch his shoulder that he snapped out of his shock.

“You’re stuck with us,” he announced, his smile wide and welcoming and so very different from the aura he’d exuded the first time Noctis saw him get out of the car. “Looks like _you’re_ our brother now, too, so better get used to that.”

Their brother?

Their _brother_.

He could have cried. He probably _would_ have if he didn’t think he’d look like a big baby. That could come later, when he was alone in his room with only Carbuncle, who would never tell a soul. Rather, he nodded his head with a little grin turning up the corners of his mouth—until he got a load of what Ignis was pouring into a large serving bowl.

“Uh… If we’re brothers now,” he mumbled, pointing a finger at the concoction with thinly veiled terror, “do I have to eat that?”

Of all the jokes that had been made at his expense in the last two visits, _that_ was the statement that truly appeared to offend Ignis. “This soup is the _best_ tomato soup in the Crown City!”

Grimacing, Noctis whined, “It’s _tomatoes_!”

He was utterly unaffected. Noctis could merely have observed that the soup was _red_ for all that his opinion seemed to make any difference.

“Well, it’s not the _only_ thing I’m making,” admitted Ignis, gesturing towards the skillet he’d set out on the other burner.

Already wary of it, Noctis ventured, “What _else_?”

Somehow, he got lucky. Grilled cheese was one of Nyx’s specialties in the wintertime, although he’d make them for Noctis whenever he liked. Ignis’s sandwiches weren’t _better_ , which didn’t surprise him; they were pretty close, though, and that certainly did. The edges were a little blackened and the bread was too hard in places, but it still tasted good. Even Uncle Cid and Cor were impressed when they carefully carried plates and bowls downstairs for them.

The only downside was that Ignis made him dip his sandwich in his soup. The upside was that he’d only had to try it _once_.

In spite of the gross red goo that eventually ended up in the refrigerator as leftovers Noctis wouldn’t touch in a million years, it was one of the best meals he’d ever eaten. It wasn’t diner food, which was always a nice change, and he had his two new friends sitting around the table with him the whole time. They talked about anything and everything and nothing at all, usually resorting to teasing each other when it got too quiet. Ignis described his fancypants school a little more while Gladio regaled them with some tales of his own (because he was training to do the same thing his dad did, which was _awesome_!). Noctis didn’t contribute much to the conversation, but no one complained about it. Ignis and Gladio filled in the gaps—he was content to let the discussion wash over him, laughing at all the appropriate moments and interjecting when he had something to say.

At one point, he vaguely remembered Cindy coming home and grabbing food before heading back down to work with Uncle Cid on Cor’s car. He barely noticed that the sky had gone from blue to pink to black in the time it took for them to finish dinner and retreat to his room. Hours passed, but Noctis didn’t register any of it.

What _did_ occur to him was how Ignis’s expression grew serious and attentive when he showed them the Oracle Ascension Coin. It was how strong Gladio was when he lifted a corner of the dresser because his treasure fell and rolled underneath. It was how sincere they were when they promised to keep an eye out for others that they could bring him on their next visit.

It was how natural everything felt—playing together, laughing together, _being_ together. Nothing was unfamiliar or strange anymore; rather, a sense of belonging descended on Noctis that he’d only ever felt with Carbuncle before. As jarring as Ignis’s accent had been when they first met, Noctis was entirely at ease with it now, lulled by its gentle cadences when Ignis read aloud to him from one of the many storybooks Crowe had left for him to practice with.

He couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Ignis and Gladio felt the same way. The latter was constantly nudging his shoulder and whispering sarcastic comments with a mischievous grin he thought Ignis wouldn’t notice. (He did.) For his part, Ignis— _Iggy_ —never complained when Noctis kept asking him to read more. Story after story ended exactly the same:

“Another?”

“Of course.”

Noctis didn’t remember falling asleep with his head in Ignis’s lap or the sounds of his two new friends—his brothers—bickering over how a word was pronounced in his ears. All he knew was that he’d found something that he hadn’t realized was missing all this time, something that made him feel whole even when he woke up alone in his bed the next morning.

Something that told him he didn’t have to be sad because his friends would come back for him.  


	9. Cat and Mouse

Regis could count the number of times he’d wanted to abdicate his throne on one hand.

There had been the ball his father held for his twentieth birthday. Of course, that was merely a pretense: in reality, the occasion was meant for him to select a suitable queen, not fraternize as he was wont to do at such a tender age. Even now, with all the years that lent clarity to hindsight, he could not begin to fathom how many noblewomen had accosted him in search of attention that night. Weskham kept count for the first two dozen or so, yet by the time the evening waned, both were exhausted enough to cringe at the notion of tallying the total. Clarus was of no use in the endeavor, having been too preoccupied with ensuring that none of the fair ladies in question attempted to stab him while they insisted on remaining in close quarters. Time had hardly eased his Shield’s fastidious devotion to Regis’s safety, that much was certain. It was this thought that once kept Regis from shying away from his duty as crown prince of Lucis in spite of all it entailed: if he _did_ , his friend would be out of work.

He would never forget his first official state dinner, either—fiasco that it was. Regis had been heavily involved in his father’s government from a young age; it was a requirement that King Mors felt befitting of his station. As such, he’d trained in the art of diplomacy since before he formed any memory of specific lessons: how to walk with regal resolve, speak assertively while honoring some degree of civility, eat with an air of grace that made it seem as though bodily functions were beneath someone of such stately presence. Therefore, when the time came for him to join his father as the face of their nation rather than spend the evening sequestered in his quarters where none of the diplomats would see him, he was confident that he was prepared. So, of course, the evening had been such an unmitigated mess that he hardly dared to reminisce about it all these years later. Beneath the thick veneer of his training, he had been a nervous amalgamation of trembling limbs and slips of tongue that had him consuming more wine than was strictly appropriate for a political gathering. The drink, which should have alleviated his tension, did the exact opposite. After that… Well, suffice it to say that he’d perhaps been less than sympathetic with a Duscaen mayor who was a trifle _too_ sympathetic to the empire.

The other instances were buried so deeply in the recesses of his mind that Regis doubted anyone would be able to locate them even if they cut open his brain and laid bare all his secrets. They were for him to regret in solitude.

This council meeting forced him to add yet another note to his ever-expanding list of moments that made him wonder if his throne was truly worth the trouble of sitting in it.

“Sending more men would leave us vulnerable!”

“ _Refusing_ to send more aid would mean accepting the loss of one of our strongest allies.”

“Tenebrae hasn’t known strength since the last Oracle was in power. The empire knows this and acted to take advantage of the opportunity to gain control over the new Oracle.”

“In so doing, they have signed their own demise. The gods would _never_ see a mage enslaved.”

“They saw one turn to darkness and ravage all the lands with his scourge,” muttered Clarus to his left. Fortunately, the din of pointless arguing drowned it out.

Regis couldn’t find the energy to reprimand him for his sarcasm, regardless of the honesty behind it. This was an old debate, one that they had held repeatedly for nearly a year now. As with the other predicaments that had presented themselves over time, this particular issue offered just as few options to choose from.

Tenebrae hadn’t been the beginning, but a culmination of years of imperial posturing that Regis was unable to thwart. Whatever actions he took, it was as though Niflheim was merely waiting for the chance to effortlessly rebuff him at every turn. When Regis had strengthened military presence along the coastal borders, the empire sent yet another blockade to stare them down. When he’d ordered greater shipments of goods to Accordo, as their ally had been struggling under constant diplomatic bombardment for nigh on four years, either the merchant ships sank under _mysterious circumstances_ or the items were pillaged by _unknown parties_ upon arrival in Altissia. The reports were intentionally vague to avoid the possibility of mislabeling the incidents as attacks; with relations already hanging by a thread, it was unwise to issue premature accusations without indisputable evidence. Still, each situation was obviously a powerplay, a show of imperial might and a warning that Lucis would suffer should they refuse to play by Aldercapt’s rules.

Then Tenebrae fell in a storm of fire and ash.

They hadn’t seen it coming. There had been no warning. One day, it was business as usual; the next, everything was burning. News broadcasts had been discontinued almost immediately, with only the barest fraction of the story released while they still had the chance. Lucian intelligence operatives had similarly gone silent, and after a year of waiting, Regis fostered little hope that they had made it out of the empire’s clutches with their lives. If they were as talented as their position would suggest, then they had embraced the false identities concocted for them cooperatively between their two nations and vanished into the populace. With the empire now holding the keys to all of Tenebrae’s secrets and its council, however, it would only be a matter of time before they were discovered.

That was one of many reasons why Regis had authorized the deployment of part of the Kingsglaive to Tenebrae two weeks prior. They hadn’t been alone: a militia of volunteers, mostly immigrants born in the Oracle’s kingdom, opted to join the fight. Representatives had sought an audience with him mere hours after the empire’s treachery was unveiled, offering their services and pleading with him to send aid. Their request had been granted, not that he would have denied them. Now, he was beginning to question whether that had been the wisest course of action. With no news forthcoming, he could only assume that he had sent them— _civilians_ —to their deaths.

The council cared little for the moral ramifications of his dilemma, although he couldn’t blame them: that was hardly the job they had been chosen to perform. All they could do was debate, advise, and legislate—the final decisions and their consequences fell solely on Regis’s shoulders. They had a nation to run, an ally to save, and another to protect. There simply wasn’t the time to rest on their laurels, especially not when they were currently on the losing side of this war. Now was the moment for action and strength.

Something that his council apparently understood but was ill equipped to execute.

“That’s enough,” he boomed, his voice echoing in the sudden silence that fell when they realized it was their king and not another of their number who had spoken. All eyes turned to him, and the few people who had stood during their impassioned diatribes sank slowly into their seats.

Regis took a moment to bask in the quiet and survey them all with a careful eye. They only had Lucis’s best interests at heart and always would; of that, he had no doubt. He wished that he could say the same for himself, but it was not to be. Some modicum of responsibility fell to him for this series of debacles, a greater one than he believed anyone realized except perhaps Clarus, which meant that his duty to their allies dictated he assist however possible. In this war, they could not afford the luxury of believing that they could stand alone. They needed Accordo; they needed Tenebrae. Otherwise, although the hammer stroke would fall slowly, it _would_ inevitably fall.

So, straightening to his full height, he leaned forward to rest his folded hands on the table and began, “We cannot hope to achieve victory against the empire without aid. Our allies are our best defense, as we are theirs. To abandon Tenebrae to Niflheim’s governance is unthinkable."

“With all due respect, Majesty, I disagree,” countered Councilman Furcifer, reluctant yet unwavering. “Our alliance with Tenebrae has always been of strategic value. They’ve acted as a buffer between us and the empire for decades. After the Oracle’s demise, their fall was unavoidable.” Glancing around the table at the rest of the council, he proposed, “We should focus our resources on whatever we will need to rebuff the enemy should they attack our borders, not sending more men and weapons that will be lost to Niflheim.”

Before Regis had a chance to address his rebuttal, Councilwoman Lucerna acerbically rejoined, “Is there no way to do _both_? Certainly, we can spare the resources for Tenebrae _and_ protecting our borders.”

“The empire has grown strong enough that to split our attention would be unwise,” he argued, but she was already shaking her head.

“As you said, it was a matter of time before Tenebrae was annexed. If that is the case, then it will be some time yet—years, perhaps—before they are able to gather enough strength to attack Lucis. There will be the administration of a provisional government to see to, the absorption or deconstruction of the military—“

“Not to mention the attention they will doubtless pay the Oracle,” interrupted Clarus, finally appearing to have had enough of this argument.

There was more than one sour expression at his statement, and Regis nodded in agreement. Little Luna was still too young to be fulfilling her duties as Oracle and would be for quite a while; there was no telling how that timeline would be altered if her actions were controlled by the empire. As a monarch, Regis knew that the effect would be devastating: Niflheim would dictate who died and who was spared the world over, and there was nothing anyone could do about it without first capitulating to their demands. That was a slippery slope indeed.

There was, however, another layer to the conundrum that he would only privately dwell on. It was a personal matter, not one meant for his council to debate.

The empire would have been less likely to succeed in appropriating Tenebrae if Sylva were still alive. Although his encounters with the former Oracle were fewer than he would have liked, mainly for the purposes of renewing the alliance forged between their nations many generations before either of them ascended their respective thrones, he harbored a great deal of admiration for her and considered her a friend. Sylva had been one of the most powerful women in the world, as well as the most loved. Her own council had obeyed her every instruction without hesitation; her people had adored her for reasons other than her inherited blessings. When she ruled Tenebrae, there was no question of its safety: as long as she stood at the helm, no one would dare to incite the righteous wrath of her citizens.

That strong, capable, brilliant woman had been stolen from them by the same person who was likely behind Tenebrae’s capture. Yes, Niflheim had always set its sights a bit high, undoubtedly going so far as to overstep its bounds on occasion. Every time, they paid for it with men and resources that they could not renew as quickly as their imperial desires required. That had always been a blessing for the rest of Eos—with eyes too big for his stomach, the emperor would never see the victory he thirsted for.

Now, the light that had kept him at bay was gone. Worse than that was _how_ : in defense of a foreign prince, no matter how futile the attempt had been. Sylva had protected Noctis with her life, and it left Tenebrae vulnerable. The empire had exploited that weakness, ensuring a slow and insidious catastrophe that would rock every nation in the world.

All because Sylva had given her life for Regis’s son. Was he to abandon Luna and Ravus now?

There was little need to ponder the question when he already knew the answer.

“If it were simply a matter of maintaining a buffer, we would be having quite a different discussion,” he followed hard on Clarus’s heels. “The Oracle’s position in the midst of this turmoil offers us little recourse. At the very least, she and the prince must be liberated, along with the council if possible.”

Furcifer scoffed. “It is optimistic to believe that anyone on the council still lives, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps. But we know this: the empire will not harm Lunafreya or Ravus, not when they are worth far more to them alive.”

“ _They_ are aware of this, as well, which means that both of them will be heavily guarded. We would lose more than the situation warrants.”

“And the countless lives the Oracle would save if she were brought to Lucis?” inquired Lucerna with a raised eyebrow. Furcifer leveled her with a flat stare.

“I understand the repercussions of leaving her in imperial custody as well as you, but the fact remains that we would expend resources we _do not_ have in the _hopes_ of saving lives in the future. There is no guarantee that we would succeed, and even if we did, at what cost? How would we know that Niflheim didn’t intend for us to make that mistake?”

The corner of Clarus’s mouth twitched downward, but his voice betrayed none of his unease when he asked, “You believe they would lay a trap using the Oracle as bait?”

“I do,” Furcifer replied emphatically before turning an imploring eye on Regis. “Your Majesty, I understand that the Oracle is a valuable asset to all in Lucis, but consider the possibility for a moment that the empire would seek to use that against us in a less obvious fashion.”

The rest of the council was silent, most of them having grown quite interested in the table or their fingers. A few were brave enough to look between Furcifer and Regis, expressions inscrutable. As much as he would have liked to end the debate then and there, he knew the councilman had every right to voice his opinions regardless of how little Regis cared for them. Besides, he was not so blinded by his determination to ignore what may be a valid point. A king would never be so careless with his kingdom’s safety, personal feelings notwithstanding.

With a sweeping gesture of his hand, Regis motioned for Furcifer to continue. The latter respectfully bowed his head in wordless gratitude.

“The Oracle is arguably the most important of the four mages,” he began to reticent nods of assent. “As such, the empire knows that we would be likely to mount a rescue operation, if not take back the nation entirely. They could use our desperation to their advantage and draw us in only to decimate any forces we send. Eventually, it will leave too few people _here_ to defend Lucis.”

“Which is precisely the sort of cowardly game the empire would play,” murmured Clarus, although it seemed to cost him a great deal of effort. Regis couldn’t say he felt any differently.

Furcifer nodded. “Precisely. Your Majesty, I am not suggesting we abandon Tenebrae. All I ask is that we consider our own safety first and only act when we have the strength within our homeland to meet the enemy’s advances head on.”

Not even Lucerna could combat the councilman’s logic, and the chamber fell silent enough that Regis was surprised and a bit disappointed that they couldn’t hear the traffic from the city outside. It wasn’t a comfortable stillness, either. There was a tangible static of unease simmering just beneath the surface as every council member seemed to resign themselves to the same conclusion: that there was nothing they could do for Tenebrae, not at present.

Regis had to concur, as Clarus did, that it was indeed a likely scenario. Doubtless, the empire had thought of nothing other than how they could solidify their power over the region for the last five years, and now they were seeing the fruits of their labor. To send more men—more civilians, even—into harm’s way on a fool’s errand was just as impossible as doing nothing. He had to safeguard his citizens first and foremost; if he could not achieve that much, Lucis would be all but useless to its allies. Loath as he was to admit it, liberating Tenebrae would have to wait.

That did not mean he had to leave them utterly defenseless in the face of their suffering, though.

“Your logic is incontrovertible, Furcifer,” Regis admitted, inclining his head slightly. “An assault on the imperial occupation force _is_ unwise. Stealth operatives would be better suited to this situation.”

Frowning, the councilman opened his mouth to speak but hadn’t the opportunity before Lucerna agreed, “Infiltration of the territory may prove vital to providing us useful intelligence on what is happening within the borders of Tenebrae. If there _is_ an opening to remove the Oracle without undue risk to our own forces…”

“It would be no mean feat to smuggle someone into the area,” Clarus reminded them with a glance at Regis. The latter nodded.

“Which is why I trust that Captain Drautos will provide a Glaive of great competence for the task,” he shot back, returning his Shield’s knowing gaze with a quirked eyebrow. They both knew that Drautos would jump at the opportunity, as he always did, but his displeasure with the idea would be obvious. Stealth was the realm of the weak, or so he tended to claim—Regis’s belief was that it took greater skill and adaptability to fool one pair of eyes than cut out a hundred. It had become a private joke between himself and Clarus that the captain was merely jealous, not having perfected the art of subtlety in all his years of service.

For this operation, however, Regis would accept no argument. There was little time, especially when the path to the coast was now open to the empire. They would need to act with haste if they were to install a Glaive, preferably two, while Cartanica was still free.

With the majority of his council in agreement (including Furcifer, who grudgingly assented to the decision as the best middle ground they were likely to find), the briefing _finally_ ended. Regis watched them all file out, whispering amongst themselves regarding details and logistics that he simply couldn’t bring himself to care much about at the moment. That was their job; his was to approve the final plan. For now, he supposed he had earned the right to slump back in his chair and heave the sigh that had been pushing up from his stomach for the last few hours.

“One would think this gets easier with time, Clarus,” he mumbled, shaking his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Shield lean forward with his elbows on his knees.

“Instead it gets harder.”

“Of course.”

“Furcifer was right.”

“I’m aware.”

Clarus’s eyes burned into the side of his head, but he chose not to comment further. It wasn’t as though Regis didn’t already know what he was going to say.

“You think I’m foolish,” he surmised.

His Shield shrugged. “I think you’re taking responsibility that isn’t yours to shoulder.”

“Then whose is it?” inquired Regis, finally raising his eyes to meet Clarus’s. “Who else will come to Tenebrae’s aid if not Lucis?”

“There is always Accordo.”

Scoffing, he countered, “You know Accordo hasn’t the resources necessary to wage a full-scale war. In time, I doubt that they will escape the empire’s shadow any more effectively than Tenebrae.”

“That would also _not_ be your fault,” Clarus pointed out, his tone brooking no argument. Regis tried nevertheless.

“No one but Niflheim would be at fault in either case, but it doesn’t negate our responsibility to our allies.”

“I’m not saying that it does.”

“Then what _are_ you saying?” he demanded testily. When his Shield wordlessly raised his eyebrows, Regis’s irritation seemed to bleed out, leaving only exhaustion in its wake. “Apologies, Clarus.”

A sturdy, familiar hand squeezed his shoulder in a comforting display of affection he hardly deserved. In moments such as these, he had to wonder what he’d done to warrant being granted a Shield and friend like the one sitting beside him. Perhaps fate had made a mistake and gifted him the presence of someone far too good, and his own just deserts were waiting somewhere to belatedly greet him. He could only hope that his luck would last and that day would never come, but given the way karma had seemed to plague his steps constantly for the last five years, he doubted it.

He would appreciate every moment, however, especially when Clarus ignored his outburst to reassure him, “You already carry the burden of your own kingdom. Do not add the weight of others, or you won’t be able to handle even one.”

Despite his reasonable appeal, Regis sighed, “Someone _must_. If not Lucis, then who? If not now, then when?”

“You’re doing the best you possibly can,” Clarus observed calmly. “It’s more than any other king before you would have done.”

“Yet it means nothing.”

“It means _everything_.”

If only he could believe that. If only Regis could take the situation and whittle it down to such objective facts: that in the grand scheme of things, he was allotting far more time and energy to Tenebrae’s troubles than anyone else in the world. How could that be enough, though? Sylva’s children were trapped; the council, much as he hated to admit it, was likely already dead. Very soon, there would be little left of the kingdom that had once been known as the home of the Oracle. In its place would be yet another cog in the imperial war machine, the land destroyed to make way for tools of death and destruction. Acting against them was like standing on the tip of a knife—they were just as likely to thwart their enemy as be impaled by their own blades. Who, then, did he protect?

 _His people_. The answer was clear, yet it was a decision that would gnaw at him indefinitely.

Hopefully, their clandestine endeavor would yield at least some intelligence to direct their actions in the future. Although his people came first this time, he would not abandon Sylva’s children to this torment forever. As long as there was strength to be found in Lucis, in his station, in _himself_ , Regis would ensure that the Oracle’s sacrifice was neither in vain nor unreciprocated. It might take time, but he would see them liberated even if the rest of Tenebrae was lost.

Regis told his Shield none of those things because he already knew. They had been friends long enough that words were hardly necessary anymore, an advantage that had grown exponentially in the last few years alone. There were few others he could turn to at times like this who would understand him quite the way Clarus did.

Forcing a weary smile, he murmured, “You place too much faith in me, my old friend.”

“I am confident I’ll see a return on my investment,” smirked his Shield.

The tense atmosphere shattered for a fraction of a second, sufficient time for him to jostle Regis’s shoulder the way he had when they were children, before the doors opened again. They were fortunate this time—it was neither a member of the council boasting ideas nor Captain Drautos in a towering temper at being told of their plot. Instead, the sight of Cor made Regis’s heart beat twice as quickly, especially when he spied the envelope the marshal carried at his side.

“Majesty, Clarus,” he greeted them with a bow of his head. It took longer than anticipated, but they had gradually discouraged his habitual, nauseating levels of formality in private. Regis considered it quite the boon—anything to transfer that precious package to his hands faster was more than welcome.

When he merely nodded in reply, Clarus took the initiative of wryly retorting, “Was your time in Hammerhead enjoyable?”

The glare that earned him could have stripped the gold ornamentation from the walls and melted it into a steaming puddle on the floor. Clarus frequently joked that in his old age, Cor was growing soft: the disdain he once felt for Cid’s very existence had been tempered into something fonder, less biting than the young marshal who hadn’t understood why an uneducated bumpkin maintained such a coveted standing at the Citadel. His complaints about accents and intelligence had tapered off in light of Noctis’s apparent diversion down a more suitable path, although there were still occasions when he regaled them with tales of what passed for nutritious meals in the Sophiar household.

“Diner food!” he’d exclaimed after his second trip to Hammerhead. “A prince growing up on diner food. I would call it preposterous, but it is _Cid_ we are talking about.”

Admittedly, Regis harbored his own concerns, but a bit of research into said diner had mostly assuaged them. There was no changing Cid, and given the enormity of the favor they’d asked of him, it would hardly be appropriate to demand more. There were other ways to ensure that Noctis received a homecooked meal on occasion.

One of those methods happened to be turning eight years old very shortly. He was also one of the reasons why Cor’s ventures to Hammerhead were not entirely the pleasurable affairs that a simple change of heart would have indicated.

“Gladio needs to be more careful,” the marshal asserted, speaking directly to Clarus now. The latter grimaced.

“What did he do this time?”

“Nothing Noctis would understand, but if he continues to speak the way he does about his education, it won’t be difficult for the prince to realize what his training is for.”

If that were the case, it would be a ways off yet. Regis had been assured that Noctis was brilliant, more so than he ever could have dreamed. (Perhaps he was slightly biased, but that didn’t matter.) Regardless, no five-year-old was likely to understand the inner workings of their government well enough to identify Gladiolus as having such an important position.

With that in mind, Regis couldn’t help smirking slightly when he interjected, “From the mouths of babes.”

“It would be preferable if the babes could keep those mouths closed more often,” grumbled Cor without much heat. He could speak at length about the ways in which Ignis and Gladiolus might foil the entire scheme with one misstep, but Regis knew that he had grown just as attached as he was irritated.

“I’ll speak with him,” Clarus promised, obviously resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Some things, namely Cor’s paranoia, would never change.

Neither would his thorough attention to detail, not that Regis would complain or wish for any less. In fact, when Cor handed him the envelope he’d brought, he silently thanked every deity in existence that fate’s mistake had granted him both a Shield _and_ marshal of excessive quality. The latter could recount every moment of his visit to Hammerhead with almost painstaking accuracy, outlining his experiences so scrupulously that Regis almost felt as though he’d been there himself. Then, as always, Cor delivered a package far heavier than he would have expected from anyone else. It was like being handed his heart, his soul, and every time was as the first.

Well, not _entirely_.

“I will review this with Aulea,” he quietly excused himself, the weighty packet clutched tight enough in his hands that he feared he would accidentally bend it and ruin the documents inside. “Thank you, Cor.”

“Always a pleasure, Your Majesty,” replied the marshal in a brief return to propriety. Regis didn’t tarry long enough to watch him bow, but he could picture it in his mind’s eye.

With each of Cor’s ventures to Hammerhead came a certain gift, one that Regis and Aulea shared with each other upon his return. The idea, admittedly, had been one of his own.

Despite his reluctance to risk Noctis’s discovery all those years ago, the comfort of knowing that he was protected by Gentiana’s blessing had made Regis bolder than he would ever have predicted. His concerns for Noctis had never abated, but beneath the general threat of the curse itself, there were pressing matters to be considered. A reasonable education could be provided, as could the funds for any clothing or toys or other belongings that Noctis might need. Guaranteeing that he never wanted for anything was as simple as a phone call.

Objects, however, were nothing more than that. They could not provide his son with the companionship he required if he was to rule someday, particularly with regards to those who would be the closest to him after his return to the Citadel. There was simply no way that Noctis could grow up without his Shield and advisor by his side, even if their visits were much shorter in duration than Regis preferred. What would it be like to come home and have to acclimate not only to the environment but also to the people tasked with your protection? Would it be reassuring to know that he had others watching over him no matter where he was, or smothering? They could not assume the former nor chance the latter; to do so would be to set their son up for failure.

So, it had been Regis’s choice to send Cor with Ignis and Gladiolus in the hopes that the boys would begin to develop the basis of a camaraderie not unlike the one he shared with the marshal and Clarus. He hadn’t quite expected them to get along like a house on fire, as Cor described it, but that was for the best.

As he made his way towards the gardens where Aulea met him every evening, Regis was unable to quash the surge of bitter longing that threatened to choke him with its potency. He felt no small measure of joy at the prospect of his son befriending the two boys that had always been destined for his retinue; Hammerhead was a small outpost, and his reports from Cid had indicated Noctis was beginning to feel the loneliness inherent in such an existence for a child. He could not bring himself to regret sending him friends to ease his upbringing.

Accepting that others were able to see his son in person and know him in a way he couldn’t never failed to twist his insides, though, no matter how happy Noctis was with his companions. What Regis wouldn’t give to disguise himself in plain clothes and take a trip out to Hammerhead. Perhaps he would pose as a simple businessman seeking to service his vehicle—it had, after all, been a long time since Cid worked on the Regalia, and he would surely love to lay his hands on that beautiful vehicle again. Thoughts and daydreams consumed him, as they did every month when Cor returned with news, of what it would be like. He wouldn’t tell Noctis who he was, of course; that would be too painful for both of them when it came time for him to leave. But oh, what he _could_ do for his little boy—talk to him, hear him excitedly babble about what he was learning with his tutor or what he’d discovered in a hunter’s truck. Regis would take him for something sweet at the diner, something Aulea would roll her eyes at but hardly blame him for. Before he left for the day, he would get to pat Noctis on the head and say he would see him soon, and he _would_.

But those were merely dreams. Not once had Regis left Insomnia to visit his son, nor would he for so many reasons. If he did, if he allowed himself that momentary weakness, he knew he would never be able to let go. There would be no saying goodbye, because he would grab Noctis and bring him home where he belonged. There would be no secrets, because he wouldn’t be able to keep his identity from Noctis in the first place, not when the slightest details about his life already brought Regis close to tears. Perhaps there wouldn’t even be a conversation, for he doubted that a child so young would ever understand why their father came to see him but would not— _could_ not—stay. Spending even one day with his son wasn’t worth the agony of leaving again, if he could force himself to do so.

In his brief lapses of judgment, usually late at night when the world was dark and his nightmares felt closer than ever, he had Clarus to affirm his decision. Their reasoning was different, as was often the case: where Regis’s concerns were primarily for Noctis’s emotions (and, admittedly, his own), his Shield considered the security of the matter above all else.

“If Ardyn is likely to monitor anyone in Lucis, it is _you_ ,” he’d warned one evening, just before they’d decided on the current arrangement. “ _Noctis_ may be shielded from his sight, but _you_ are not.”

Regardless of duty, Regis would gladly jump into the fires of Ravatogh before he revealed Noctis’s location purely as a result of his own impatience. His child was safe—maybe he’d been robbed of the perfect life Regis always wanted for him, unlikely as it was to begin with, but he could guarantee that much. If the alternative placed his son in unnecessary danger, then Noctis was better off without him in his life.

Inconvenient truths aside, at least they weren’t entirely without news. Regis thought he would go insane if not for Cid’s constant reports for the last five years and now Cor’s monthly deliveries. With one eye on Hammerhead at all times, he could rest assured that a part of himself was always with Noctis.

A part of _both_ of them, he remembered as he slipped through the door into the enclosed garden. Winter’s hold on Insomnia had only recently begun to thaw, yet in this bastion of peace, it was always springtime. The flowers were constantly in bloom, and the temperature remained perfect for new buds to grow. Light spilled in through the glass that encased their little splash of nature, turning everything a brilliant shade of orange as the lowering sun peeked above the distant horizon. It was one of the most glorious sights the Citadel had to offer, and one of the few private places they had left.

That was why he had designated this as the spot for his reunions with Aulea at the end of every day. The stress of ruling his kingdom took its toll, and sometimes he merely wished to escape the confines of his chambers for a while and pretend that they were anywhere else. Aulea never complained, nor did she deign to address the situation. There were some things that simply couldn’t be described in words.

“I apologize for my lateness, my love,” he murmured as he approached, kneeling to press his lips to her hand. When he tilted his head up, her expression was set in a forgiving (albeit wry) smile. “I found myself waylaid by a most aggravated council.”

Aulea smirked at him but chose not to remark on the mixed emotions she’d always felt towards his subordinates. It must have been apparent from his expression that he needed a moment to simply vent his frustrations in a setting where they would not be overheard. After all, it was poor manners and politics for a king to complain of such things in the presence of others. His wife, however, was perhaps the most skilled of them all in the art of keeping secrets.

Sighing, Regis moved to sit beside her on the stone bench and shook his head. “I feel as though I have failed our allies, yet I know that there is nothing more we can do. You’ve said it yourself, as has Clarus. Lucis must come first.”

Per usual, she was kind enough not to say she’d told him so. Countless times, as a matter of fact.

“Protecting our kingdom is my foremost priority, but the ground we are losing elsewhere will not be all the empire takes from us if we do not act. They have Tenebrae, which means they have the Oracle in their grasp. Gentiana and Carbuncle have not been seen since the invasion, so we have to believe that they were not there until we have confirmation. If Niflheim holds all of the mages…”

He didn’t dare to say it, but Aulea undoubtedly knew what he meant: there would be no hope for _anyone_ if that were the case. Ardyn had drifted so far from both his counterparts and the Astrals that made them in the first place that there was no telling what he would do in the event that the empire took custody of all the mages. As Furcifer had indicated, the Oracle was considered the most precious, her powers carrying the greatest weight amongst the people of all nations. What the Messenger and Dream Guardian represented was just as important, and if their lights were obliterated from the face of Eos, no one would be safe. There would only be one mage left, and he would sooner see them all rot or live long enough to satisfy whatever twisted, grotesque experiments he sought to conduct.

Here, in Lucis, there was still some semblance of strength. How long that would last if the rest of the free world fell was unclear.

“I know,” Regis sighed with a dry smirk. “I cannot predict the future, nor can I prepare for every contingency. You’ve said so before.”

Aulea’s eyes bore into his when he glanced at her, communicating silently. Nodding, he pushed aside the concerns that would doubtless continue to pester him even without the opportunity to ruin this moment, and held up the envelope he’d set in his lap.

“Cor brought more photos of Noctis. Shall we?”

Maybe it was nothing more than the shifting light of dusk, but it seemed that his wife’s features brightened considerably at the change of subject, and Regis chuckled as he cupped a hand over hers. He hadn’t even opened the packet, yet tears were already threatening to spill down his cheeks when he turned it over to do so with trembling fingers.

What he discovered was a veritable treasure trove. Cor had certainly outdone himself this time, although it appeared that Cid had also helped in the endeavor. As they pored over the photographs together, Regis was glad to see that not all of them were posed the way they had been towards the beginning of their visits. Cor hadn’t felt comfortable slyly gathering pictures of a child that had no idea who he was, which he could understand; privacy was a precious commodity even for a young prince—perhaps _especially_.

Now, quite a few of the shots were candid. Regis could imagine that he was staring at his son in real life, watching him color a messy yet endearing picture of his two friends standing beside him. He could place himself in the position of the photographer and feel like he was a part of Noctis’s attempts to sneak vegetables away from the kitchen so that _they_ could not sneak into his dinner.

“Look how he’s grown,” he whispered when they paused at a picture Cor had obviously solicited. According to the tales the marshal had brought back to accompany the photos, Cid’s temperament seldom lent him the patience to see himself on film. This one, however, had to be one of Regis’s new favorites.

In the last five years, he had spoken to his old friend and the guardian of his child on the phone a handful of times. Their conversations had been chiefly for Noctis’s benefit, although they had exchanged a few pleasantries that gave him hope their relationship could one day be rekindled through their shared affection for his son. Calls and voices could not replace the warmth that spread through his chest at the sight of Cid’s smile when he looked at Noctis, holding the latter in his arms while he grinned at the camera.

Clarus had once told him that the passage of time was quick, that the years would fly by until he was left wondering where they had gone. The hours themselves were agonizing, but there was no denying in hindsight that he was quite right. It was all the more apparent when they flipped to the next picture, another posed piece that left him laughing heartily. What else was he to do when his son was up on Gladiolus’s back as though the latter were an undersized chocobo? Ignis held Carbuncle in the same fashion, albeit with the resignation of a child who had been wheedled into doing something he felt was ridiculous. He would have been justified, although maybe it wasn’t such a great travesty for him to spend time amongst children who weren’t trained to act as adults—something he was _far_ too good at, in Regis’s opinion.

Between the two of them, Ignis and Gladiolus made his baby boy look so tiny. Well, he would always be _their_ baby, but he was an infant no more. It was clear in the photograph that he was small for his age, as Cid had pointed out on numerous occasions (and which Cor suspected was due to his diet). When Regis had last seen him, however, Carbuncle had seemed so enormous by comparison. Stopping on the final picture, he smiled sadly to see that that was no longer the case: the stuffed toy fit quite comfortably in Noctis’s arms where he was sleeping on a threadbare couch with his head in Ignis’s lap and a foot on Gladiolus’s shoulder.

He was growing up. Slowly but surely, Noctis was growing up before his very eyes.

What he wouldn’t give to see it in person.

It was a near miss, but he managed to push the photos back into the envelope just before his body betrayed him and allowed his tears free rein. They streaked silently down his cheeks to stain the fabric of his trousers instead of the beautiful, precious pictures that would soon join the framed ones that decorated his personal chambers.

He knew that Aulea would have her own tears, that she would be equally torn between delight at seeing their son and the permanent heartache of keeping him at a distance. There would be grief in her gaze and a desperate need for comfort etched into every line of her face, just like him.

But there was no solace to be found in her cold, stone arms. There was no sympathy in the grey eyes that stared back at him, unchanging with season or mood or moment. Ageless and serene as she hadn’t been in life, the effigy carved above her grave could offer him company but not comfort. Even in those final days, mere months after they had sent away their son and living symbol of their love for one another, she could ease his troubles with a glance or her fragile fingers clasping his with surprising strength. The endless stream of doctors who couldn’t diagnose her ailment, the hours spent watching her vacillate between fiery fevers and deathly chills, the constant fear that this was yet another method a spurned mage had chosen to exact his revenge—none of it had changed that.

Death, that old friend of misery, changed everything. Alone he had suffered through the intervening years, and alone he would suffer now.

At least he could console himself with one thought, sometimes the sole reason he was able to rouse himself from his bed in the morning and face his duties as king: _fifteen years to go_.

 

***

 

“I thought you said you had the situation well in hand.”

“Why, Your Radiance,” Ardyn drawled with a dismissive gesture, “I can assure you that the matter is indeed _completely_ under control.”

Emperor Aldercapt raised his eyebrows in an expression of skeptical amusement. “Is that so?”

“But of course.”

For a moment, he offered no answer. His concern was a reasonable reaction, Ardyn supposed, but it was entirely unnecessary. The emperor was nothing more than a mere mortal; he ruled over his pitiful landmass with what he considered an iron fist. It was his mage, however, who truly held the power of the empire in his hands. How very frequent it was that Aldercapt appeared to forget how much of his success was owed not to his military prowess, but his ever faithful, _loyal_ servant.

It was not the emperor who had brought Tenebrae and King Regis to their knees.

It was not the emperor who had punished a meddlesome rodent with another death in exchange for a life saved.

Even so, the ungrateful swine reclined back on his throne and mused, “I would have thought that managing a child would be simple work. Still, I have yet to see the dead prince I was promised.”

“Is it possible that Your Radiance doubts my abilities?” inquired Ardyn in a low, smooth tone. It had little effect on the emperor.

“Perhaps you are simply losing your touch?” he replied instead. Making it a question did nothing to soften the blow. “You have been a great asset to the empire for many long years, but even the most talented can age gracelessly.”

Oh, _that_ was rich. Coming from a man whose existence hung by a thread, one that Ardyn could gladly sever at any moment, made the comment all the more comical. In certain circles, that was.

With a dangerous smirk, Ardyn simpered, “I can _assure_ you, age to someone of my unique abilities is but a number. Just as a child is but a momentary blemish.”

“A blemish that will ascend the throne of Lucis if you cannot deliver your side of our bargain,” Aldercapt reminded him blandly.

“You have my _word_ ”—he bowed low, mostly to hide his sneer— “that the prince will be found.”

“ _And_ killed.”

Ardyn refrained from sighing, the result of centuries of practice. Some people didn’t understand the poetic irony of the long game, the slow and steady drag of years that eventually brought all things to an end. How very dull.

“The prince will indeed expire in time,” he ultimately evaded. His subtlety was not lost on the emperor.

Aldercapt scoffed and insisted, “Five years seems an adequate allowance, perhaps even _too_ kind.”

Raising his head, Ardyn donned a puzzled expression and inquired, “But Your Radiance, do you care so little for the nuances of the chase?”

“At this juncture, I care more for ensuring that Lucis does not interfere with our ambitions,” he tutted impatiently. When Ardyn shook his head in feigned dismay, he demanded, “You have a more effective solution?”

 _That_ was his cue. It was such a simple feat to read the emperor’s desires and play him for the fool he was.

With a façade of utmost calm and deference, he recommended, “According to our operatives inside Insomnia, support for King Regis’s meddling in your affairs is dwindling. With his son outside the city and his dear wife having passed long ago, I daresay His Majesty will be taxed enough with his _own_ nation. Involving himself in imperial matters would be foolhardy at best.”

“You wish to do nothing, then?” Aldercapt assumed.

“Perish the thought!” was Ardyn’s immediate denial as he rose to his feet and paced closer to the throne. “I am merely entreating you not to act in haste. Lucis crumbles from within, and the prince will be found well before he has the opportunity to reinforce his father’s resolve. King Regis knows he is no match for Niflheim’s might in either regard.”

There was no reason for Ardyn to delineate between the emperor’s use of force and the magnitude of the shadow he had personally cast over Regis’s kingdom for the past five years—longer, if he was being honest. And as Aldercapt preferred to acknowledge only that which made him appear strong and wise (and young, which was quite a stretch even for _him_ ), it was all too easy to bring a thoughtful smirk to his face.

“You _will_ still see to it that the boy is disposed of?” he clarified carefully, to which Ardyn inclined his head in respectful acquiescence. “Then I grant you the time you deem necessary to do so.”

“Your Radiance is too generous for words,” lilted Ardyn, already moving towards the doors.

The guards outside had hardly opened them in anticipation of his exit before the emperor called, “Make no mistake: should you fail to locate the prince or Lucis does indeed overextend themselves to our disadvantage, the consequences will be severe.”

Spinning on his heel, Ardyn swept into a deep bow, plucking his hat from his head in the process.

“Rest assured, Your Radiance,” he pledged confidently, “there is more than one way to apprehend a child.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there are two Easter eggs in this chapter I need to explain lest anyone miss out on them. Sadly, the council members in Kingsglaive were never named, but this debate still needed to happen. That meant choosing names for them. (Cue the dramatic music right about here.) I thought of just picking two random names in Latin and being done with it, but I decided to take this opportunity to say thank you to two people who have been such a huge part of making this story and my others happen: [Roguehearted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguehearted) and [Midnightninja14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/midnightninja14). These two are phenomenal writers, amazing friends, and the best support system I could have ever hoped for in this fandom. And now, to thank you both for all you do for the community and for me, I'm adding you to my story. 
> 
> Furcifer is Latin for "rogue." Lucerna is Latin for "midnight oil," the closest reasonable translation I could find and still use for a name. 
> 
> And, as always, I want to thank everyone who reads this story and those of you who are kind enough to offer feedback in whatever form it takes. We're still in the pretty early stages of the story, but the response to this fic has been incredible. Thank you all so much!


	10. Blurred Lines

“This is stupid.”

Gladio rolled his eyes. “We haven’t even started yet!”

Kicking a pebble off the edge of the pavement, Noctis shrugged and muttered, “Still stupid.”

“You’re just sayin’ that ‘cause you’re scared.”

His eyes snapped up from where they’d been trained on the stick he was tapping idly against the side of his shoe. “Am not!”

“Are _too_ ,” smirked Gladio, sensing his victory. Noctis wasn’t going to hand it to him that easily, though.

“Am not,” he repeated with his nose pointed skyward in his best impression of Ignis when he was irritated. “Just doesn’t make sense.”

Gladio let those words hover in the air between them for a few seconds before clarifying, “Learning how to defend yourself doesn’t make sense.”

Admittedly, it sounded much dumber when he said it like that.

Swallowing hard, Noctis felt his resolve plummet a bit as he hesitantly retorted, “It’s…just sticks…though…”

If he expected that to have any impact at all on Gladio’s opinion, he was sadly mistaken. The latter simply rolled his eyes again, folded his arms across his chest in the most unimpressed fashion Noctis had ever seen, and observed, “Well, if you had a training sword around here, we wouldn’t _have_ to use sticks. Gotta work with what we’ve got.”

Noctis didn’t bother pointing out that Uncle Cid didn’t _let_ him have toy swords, which hardly made it his fault. It wasn’t that he didn’t want them; his treasure hunts would be a lot more fun if he could pretend he was a pirate, after all. As great as it was to wander around looking for trinkets with Umbra, he couldn’t really act like he was the scourge of the seas without a sword and an eyepatch—maybe even a hook to stick up his sleeve for a hand. No matter how hard he pestered his uncle, however, the answer was always the same: no swords, real or fake.

That argument hadn’t worked on Gladio the first twenty times he’d used it, and he wasn’t optimistic enough to believe that he would buy it now. So, switching tacks, Noctis halfheartedly waved the stick in the air and countered, “Hunters don’t even _use_ swords. They use _guns_.”

It took approximately two seconds for him to realize what an enormous mistake he’d made. He didn’t even need Ignis’s resulting groan to recognize it.

“ _Guns_ are stupid!” Gladio automatically exclaimed, grimacing in distaste. “Doesn’t take much to shoot somebody. All you gotta know is where to point and how to pull a trigger. There’s no honor in that. There’s no…no…”

“Finesse,” sighed Ignis with his nose shoved as far into his book as physically possible. Gladio waved vaguely at him in thanks.

“What he said.”

Frowning, Noctis mumbled, “What’s the difference? You’re still killing stuff.”

Gladio shook his head and explained as if speaking to someone a lot younger than Noctis’s eight years, “It’s a lot harder to kill someone with a sword than a gun. You can shoot them and _bang_ , it’s over. With swords, you’ve gotta know where to aim and be strong enough to follow through. A lot of the time, you strike to injure with a sword, that way you can take prisoners.”

Before Noctis could do more than blink in confusion, Ignis quickly interjected, “He means arrest them.”

“ _And_ take prisoners,” Gladio persisted with a flat glance at him. “Soldiers use swords, too.”

“They do?” Noctis inquired, interrupting the silent conversation their glaring contest had escalated into.

Ignis shot Gladio a scathing look that _clearly_ indicated he would be answering this question himself and elaborated, “They do. Other nations use firearms exclusively, but our soldiers use a combination with a focus on swords.”

“But…don’t soldiers _want_ to kill each other?” he wondered tentatively. The way Ignis awkwardly shifted his weight and closed his book (something about the history of Lucis, because he apparently needed to know _more_ about it than he already did) made Noctis uneasy.

“Technically, yes,” he began after slow and careful deliberation. “There’s more to war than just killing the other side, though. If all you care about is the death of your enemies, there won’t be anything left to rebuild when the fighting is over. That’s why we have rules about how wars are meant to be waged.”

“There are _rules_ in wars?” The thought would have been funny if it weren’t so ridiculous.

Ignis nodded. “There are. For example, civilians can’t be targeted. Wars are only supposed to be fought between soldiers.”

“Not that everybody’s so good at following that one,” grumbled Gladio darkly. Pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, Ignis hummed in agreement.

“Not really, no.”

Noctis would have asked, but he already had a feeling he knew what they were talking about. It was pretty hard to miss given that it had been all over the news last week and none of Uncle Cid’s customers had spoken of much else for days. That was only to be expected, though, when fighting had broken out between Lucis and Niflheim off the coast of Duscae for the first time in years. _Actual_ fighting, not the sissy stuff the empire had pulled before, as his uncle described it. Noctis didn’t really understand the difference—it was all the same thing, right?

According to the news anchor he’d listened to when he went to pick up breakfast the day after, there were a lot of dead Lucians in the aftermath, so apparently not. It hadn’t been a big battle like the ones he read about with Crowe in his history books, however. Instead, it was over something so dumb that even Noctis knew it wasn’t worth the trouble: Niflheim’s ships had been blocking the coast because they were bullies, and Lucis’s ship had been sailing by. That was it. There was no big declaration of war or anything, just two boats glaring at each other until the Niffs shot first. Neither side made it through unscathed, but only the Lucians ended up at the bottom of the ocean. That ship wasn’t carrying _soldiers_ , though.

Reporters, customers, visitors— _everybody_ called it a major tragedy for Lucis and a crime against humanity perpetrated by the Niffs. Noctis wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t have to be an adult to realize it was bad. Now, it looked even worse than it seemed when he’d watched Nyx’s joking expression turn so serious. Unlike him, Nyx must have known that there were rules against attacking people who weren’t soldiers. Noctis had always thought that wars were just when two countries fought each other, plain and simple, whether that included civilians or not. Knowing that that wasn’t the case… Was Niflheim really so evil that they would kill a bunch of innocent people who were just trying to sell stuff?

Yes. It looked like they were.

And, thanks to them, Gladio had taken to quietly shuffling his feet while Ignis examined the spine of his book as though it was suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked so many questions after all, not if it meant upsetting them. Noctis had long since grown out of worrying that one wrong word would offend his best friends and send them running for the hills—or their home, which was much further—but that didn’t mean he liked making them sad any more than he had when they met. Everyone who passed through Hammerhead over the last few days looked the same: a little sad, a little mad, and a lot nervous. It wasn’t fair that his friends felt that way too, all because of the stupid empire.

So, against his better judgment, he brought them back to their original course: “Is _that_ why you wanna do this?”

It was amazing just how fast Gladio could recover from a bad mood. A mischievous grin stretched wide across his face in half a second as he snorted, “No way. You don’t got what it takes to take down a Niff.”

“Hey—!"

“You’re too scrawny for that. Plus, you don’t even know how to hold your sword yet. How’re you gonna fight if your opponent pushes you over first?”

To emphasize his point, Gladio’s hand shot out and shoved him in the chest before he could avoid it. It wasn’t enough to knock him down, but it _did_ throw him off balance and send him staggering back a step or two. Noctis righted himself immediately, although glowering didn’t make a dent in Gladio’s smirk.

“Yeah, well, you’re stronger than me,” he muttered, already bracing for a second attempt. In three years, it seemed like all that training to be a police officer like his father had made Gladio almost as bulky as Nyx—an impressive feat for an eleven-year-old, according to the latter.

Quirking an eyebrow, he shot back, “You think you’re gonna be stronger than every enemy you meet?”

“I don’t _have_ any enemies.”

“That _you_ know of.”

“Indeed,” mused Ignis, eyes firmly rooted on his book once more. “Perhaps Cindy is simply waiting to pounce.”

“Never know,” teased Gladio as he delivered a swift kick to the tire Ignis had taken up residence on. He didn’t even look as he swung a hand out to slap his cousin’s leg. “Ow!”

“Aren’t you trying to teach Noct how to fight?”

Rubbing the sting from his knee, Gladio grumbled under his breath and turned back to Noctis, whose only regret was that Ignis couldn’t see his utter lack of appreciation for that reminder. The slight twist of his lips made it obvious that he already knew, though.

“Okay, get in your best fighting stance,” ordered Gladio.

Noctis dragged his attention away from his extremely unhelpful other best friend to stare at him with raised eyebrows. _Fighting what?_

When he didn’t move, Gladio sighed and amended, “The way you stand if you’re gonna fight somebody.”

 _Oh. Why didn’t he just say_ that _?_

As a matter of fact, it would have been even better if Gladio told him _how_ so he didn’t do it the wrong way. Noctis had never fought anyone before; there was nobody he _could_ fight with even if he wanted to. Well, aside from Cindy, but they would never hit each other. The way she’d cuff him on the head sometimes when she thought he was being annoying was completely different from what he could only assume Gladio wanted him to do. For starters, they weren’t whacking each other with sticks. Actually, that was the part of this whole thing Noctis was _really_ dreading…

Which was why he yelped and dropped his own makeshift weapon when Gladio’s smacked his arm with a loud _thwack_.

“Hey, I wasn’t ready!” yelled Noctis, cradling his arm and biting down hard on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He couldn’t cry now—Gladio would think he was such a baby! He was already frowning in exasperation as it was.

“Looked more like you were just standing there,” he grunted. “Could’ve put you on the ground in a _second_.”

There was no arguing with that, so Noctis just stared at his shoes and rubbed his arm—he didn’t want to play this game anymore. It wasn’t fun.

Ever since he’d turned eight a couple of months ago, Gladio had been all about teaching him how to swordfight. Nothing as advanced as what he was learning in his fancy homeschooling classes, of course, but just enough to get by if he ever needed to beat the crap out of anybody. (Those were his words, and Ignis never failed to roll his eyes at the less than sophisticated terms he used.) The idea didn’t sound so great to Noctis, however. He didn’t _want_ to fight, and Crowe always said the best way to defend himself was with words or telling a grown-up when something was wrong. She and Nyx were on the same page there—punches were a last resort. Swords… Well, the thought made him cringe a little. If he hit someone, it probably wouldn’t hurt a whole lot; he had to grudgingly admit that he really _was_ pretty small like Gladio said. Big pointy sticks that were literally _made_ to hurt people? Nope, he was good.

He just couldn’t figure out why Gladio was insistent on playing like this when there were so many other things they could do! There was treasure hunting, video games at Takka’s, hiding Cindy’s stuff and betting on how long it would take her to find it (loser had to do dishes after dinner, which was the _worst_ )—they didn’t need to hit each other with sticks they’d pulled from the scrubby bushes behind the garage to have fun, even if it _was_ at least partially coming from a good place.

Uncle Cid had been no help when Noctis told him about it last time. If anything, he seemed to like the idea, even if his face got that funny expression it always did when he was going to say something else but stopped at the last second. Maybe he thought Noctis _wanted_ to learn and was trying to be supportive? No, couldn’t be: his uncle never hesitated to tell him _not_ to do something just because Noctis wanted it. It would have been nice if he felt that way about this.

But no, Noctis was apparently going to be left to Gladio’s mercy. Or lack thereof.

With a frustrated huff, Gladio dropped his stick to the ground beside Noctis’s and grabbed his shoulders. Noctis thought he was just trying to get his attention until Gladio started maneuvering him around roughly.

“You’re not standing firm enough,” he grumbled, kicking at the inside of Noctis’s shoes until he shifted his feet further apart. “You gotta lower”—a push to his shoulders— “your center of gravity till”—a nudge to lift his arms— “you’re totally steady.”

Oh, he definitely felt steady. And stupid. He felt that too.

By the time Gladio was finished treating him like a doll, Noctis was crouched low with his arms raised in front of him in the strangest, most uncomfortable position ever. It got even worse when Gladio grabbed his improvised sword from the ground and thrust it into his hands.

“Make sure your grip is tight but not _too_ tight.”

Noctis was starting to feel a little sick. “How do I know if it’s too tight?”

Shrugging, Gladio replied, “It’ll break,” as if it should be obvious. Then again, given that they were only using sticks and not actual weapons, maybe it was.

Despite his reluctance to do _any_ of this, Noctis didn’t dare to move lest he drop the stance Gladio had arranged him in and ruin his hard work. It was all he could do to glance over at Ignis without moving his head; the latter was furtively watching them over the top of his book, and he offered Noctis a quick wink when he saw that he’d noticed. If he wasn’t desperately attempting to hold position, he would have smiled.

Instead, his eyes darted back over to where Gladio was retrieving his own stick and striking a similar pose across from him. The instant he raised his gaze to Noctis’s, the screaming in his head to just drop his branch and run evaporated. _This_ was Gladio’s element—it was where he was most comfortable, most knowledgeable, and most enthusiastic. Noctis could see it in his eyes. Sure, he loved playing with them or listening to Ignis read just as he always had, but in this moment, Noctis felt like he was seeing who Gladio really wanted to be: a protector, even if he had to beat you up first.

It was for that reason alone that he forced himself not to tense up and refuse when Gladio instructed him, “Keep your grip steady. I’m gonna swing at you real slow—try to block me.”

_Oh, boy…_

Luckily, when he said _slow_ , he meant _crawling_. It wasn’t so scary to be on the receiving end of an attack when the other side was barely moving. Noctis was able to shift his arms up to guard against his swing long before Gladio’s branch struck his own. The achievement was a minor one, but it made him grin all the same and brought a smirk to his friend’s lips.

“Just like that. Again.”

Gladio aimed lower this time, almost at his knees, and Noctis hardly moved an inch before he was shaking his head.

“Don’t bend. Use your hands.”

Biting back a jab that he _was_ using his hands, Noctis frowned at Gladio’s branch where he held it halfway extended between them. It was like a puzzle—just bigger and moving. Crowe always told him he had a knack for solving puzzles faster than anyone she knew (which was probably an exaggeration, but it was still a nice thing to say), so he could figure this out without any help. He just needed to think.

Noctis pursed his lips as he examined the angle of Gladio’s attack, his friend waiting patiently for him to work through it with no pointers offered. Not that he needed any, because he saw _exactly_ what he had to do after just a few seconds.

“You got it, Noct!” cheered Gladio when Noctis rotated his branch downwards until it was pointing straight at the ground. It probably wasn’t _necessary_ for him to follow through on the swing, but he did it anyway just to show him he’d gotten it right.

And…he felt _proud_ of that. He’d done it!

So, of course, Gladio had to ruin it.

“A little faster this time.”

His definition of _a little_ wasn’t exactly the same as Noctis’s. Where he’d basically been inching forward with those first two swings, Noctis could hardly keep up this time. Gladio wasn’t even going particularly fast; trying to identify his intentions _and_ how he needed to respond, however, was something he wasn’t used to yet. It meant taking a few hits to his shins, but Gladio was nice enough not to tell him what he was doing wrong. Rather, when Noctis missed a block, he would repeat the same attack over and over again until he figured it out and did it right. Before long, he was keeping pace with almost every hit, sometimes going so far as to push back against Gladio in an attempt to knock him off balance. It never worked, but he looked impressed nevertheless.

Noctis didn’t know how long they had been at it when Gladio decided to try something different without telling him. It was definitely enough for them to fall into a bit of a pattern: swing, hit, swing, hit, swing, hit. Never hesitating, never faltering, never changing.

Until Gladio spun in a circle, dropped low, and whipped his branch around to strike at the side of Noctis’s legs.

A thrill of panic hopped into his throat, and Noctis reacted without thinking. Just before the fake sword could make contact, he simultaneously jumped as high as he could and brought his own play weapon down hard on Gladio’s back.

Time seemed to stand still as soon as he landed on his feet. For a second, he wasn’t sure that had actually happened—it couldn’t, right? That would be too _epic_.

Then Gladio’s stunned expression of utter shock morphed into a proud, celebratory grin and he _knew_ it had really happened.

“Where’d ya learn that one, Noct?” he laughed, standing back up and throwing his arm around Noctis’s shoulders. Well, he _tried_ to, anyway. Noctis was too busy bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet to notice how hard he was making it.

“Iggy, did you see?! I did it!”

Ignis abandoned all pretenses of trying to read his book with a huge smile and called back, “I did. Well done, Noct. You’ll be a master swordsman in no time.”

“You really think so?” he gasped hopefully. Gladio jostled him a little, and he glanced over to see his other friend looking just as confident.

“With a teacher like me, you can’t go wrong.”

“Wouldn’t that require you to finish _your_ training first?” inquired Ignis innocently.

Scoffing, Gladio waved his makeshift sword impatiently at his side and replied, “I can do both. What, you don’t trust me?”

“I trust you!” Noctis reassured him immediately, although Ignis merely rolled his eyes.

“I _trust_ you won’t cause any lasting damage in the process.”

Damage? But he was okay! …Well, he had a few scrapes on his legs and arms from where he hadn’t been fast enough, and there were the bruises he could already feel stiffening some of his muscles. Other than that, though, Gladio hadn’t hurt him!

When he said as much, Ignis shook his head and sighed, “Not _quite_ what I meant. In any case, if you two are finished, it’s getting late and I need to start cooking.”

The non-sequitur threw Noctis off, but he didn’t get a chance to ask what he meant before Ignis plucked his book from where he’d left it and made a beeline for the front of the garage. Gladio flapped a hand at his retreating back, grabbing both their fake swords and tossing them beside the mountain of tires to use another time.

“Gladio?”

“Yeah?”

Scuffing his shoe against the concrete, Noctis muttered, “What did Ignis mean by _lasting damage_?"

There was a brief pause where Gladio’s nose scrunched up as if he smelled something gross. Then, with a careless shrug, he answered, “Probably just doesn’t want me to turn you into some kinda serial killer.”

“What’s a serial killer?” asked Noctis, frowning when Gladio laughed.

“Nothin’. You know worrying’s what Iggy does best. Don’t let it bother you.”

Noctis could tell that was the end of the conversation and wisely decided to keep his mouth shut, letting Gladio put an arm over his shoulders and steer him along in Ignis’s wake. He did, however, make a mental note to ask Crowe what a serial killer was on Monday when he had school again. It didn’t _sound_ like a good thing—being any kind of killer wasn’t. He didn’t understand why or how you could kill breakfast, though. It wasn’t his _favorite_ , not when he could have chocolate chip pancakes or any of Nyx’s other specialties, but he didn’t hate it _that_ much.

Yeah, Ignis had nothing to worry about there.

Apparently, he thought dinner was a bigger priority anyway, since he’d disappeared into the apartment by the time Noctis and Gladio made it back to the garage. It looked like Cindy had already finished for the day; only Cor and Uncle Cid were still downstairs, the former sitting casually on a stool near his car while his uncle’s legs poked out from underneath the chassis.

When Cor spotted their return, his usual stoic expression softened to a smile and he asked, “How did it go?”

“Noct’s a natural,” Gladio answered for him, and Noctis couldn’t quite hide the little grin that pulled at his mouth. It didn’t seem like Cor would hold it against him, though—if anything, he looked happy to hear it.

“That mean it went better than you thought it would?” called his uncle, rolling out from beneath the car just far enough to grin at him with a knowing gleam in his eyes.

It was all Noctis could do not to roll his. “Yeah, yeah…”

Uncle Cid barked a laugh. “Good. Jus’ make sure y’all don’t leave a mess or get blood nowhere.”

_…Blood?!_

Gladio must have seen his nerves jumping at that, because he was pushing him towards the stairs a second later with a quick excuse that they should see if Ignis needed help with dinner. His uncle’s chuckles followed them all the way up the stairs.

“Don’t worry, he’s just joking,” Gladio reassured him as they stepped into the relative safety of the apartment. It didn’t do much at all to assuage the reservations that he’d forgotten about in the excitement of not having completely messed up in front of his friends.

Ignis, who was in the middle of layering noodles and sauce in a glass dish, glanced up at them with a curious frown. “Who was just joking?”

“Uncle Cid said not to get blood anywhere,” Noctis repeated before Gladio could answer. When he glanced up to see Ignis’s reaction, he felt the knot of tension in his chest loosening in light of his smirk.

“It’s sarcasm, Noct. He’s saying not to get too rough with each other.”

“Not like I _would_ ,” huffed Gladio, eyeing Noctis with a sneer, “or you _could_.”

A little spark of indignation erupted in his stomach, but Ignis was the one to calmly remind him, “He could have beheaded you earlier if he’d been wielding more than a stick.”

“Yeah!” Noctis exclaimed before he fully registered what that meant. “No, wait—I wouldn’t do that!”

Gladio laughed loudly at the scandalized look on his face, and even Ignis appeared to be doing his best not to grin too openly.

Narrowing his eyes, Noctis folded his arms and tried think of a _really_ good comeback that would stump them—in vain, as it turned out. Ignis was usually the one who whispered a retort for Gladio in his ear, but it wasn’t often that he needed to take _both_ of them on together. Ultimately, the best he could come up with was, “Least I’m not a serial killer.”

Somehow, he got his wish. That _definitely_ shut them up.

It also gave him the impression that that meant something _very_ different from what he’d been thinking. The statement itself wasn’t clever at all—he was just imitating Gladio—but it struck them dumb nonetheless. In the consequent silence, Ignis simply stared at him with his mouth hanging open while Gladio seemed desperate to sink through the floor.

“Noct,” Ignis began in a tone of forced calm that even he could pick up on, “where did you hear that phrase?”

Okay, so it was something really, _really_ bad then. Wringing his hands, Noctis considered his options: either he could tattle on Gladio and save himself from Ignis’s ire, or he could lie and say that he heard it at school. That would mean Ignis would hate Crowe, though, and Noctis couldn’t bear the thought of that. They’d still never met even after three years, but he’d told his friends about how amazing his teacher was and shared all the things she taught him when they came to visit. (Sometimes, Uncle Cid would even call Cor and they’d let them talk over the phone, which was _awesome_!) So far, Ignis had been impressed by Crowe’s knowledge of things Noctis couldn’t begin to fathom on his own, and he believed she deserved every bit of that reputation.

It wasn’t much of a choice, to be honest.

“Gladio,” he blurted out, ignoring the not so subtle elbow he got to the side for it.

Ignis nodded slowly, but he didn’t lose his temper the way Noctis would have expected. Instead he plastered a poor excuse for a smile onto his face and requested, “Could you tell Cor and Cid that dinner will be ready in half an hour, please?”

He didn’t need to be asked twice. Noctis whirled around, darted through the door, and had almost closed it behind him before he made out the beginnings of a very loud scolding. Yeah, that wasn’t something he wanted to be a party to.

Still, he quietly tiptoed towards the stairs in the hopes that he would at least hear what it meant to be a serial killer through the door. He’d only gotten a few feet away, however, when the clattering of tools and their uncles’ voices drifted up to drown them out.

“—lear that his spies are everywhere,” Cor sighed so quietly that he almost didn’t hear it.

Noctis stopped dead in his tracks, not wanting to interrupt. If Cor was talking to Uncle Cid about spies, then he was probably in the middle of a story about one of his adventures at work—one of the stories he never told when he knew Noctis was listening. Maybe Cor thought he was too little to handle it, but he _wasn’t_! He was eight years old! He could take a story about spies and criminals and all the other bad guys Cor and Gladio’s dad dealt with every day.

So, he held a hand over his nose and mouth to hide the sound of his breathing and didn’t move a muscle as he heard his uncle reply in an equally hushed tone, “Ain’t a surprise. Reggie thought he’d try somethin’ like this ‘fore too long.”

“He did. We all hoped it wouldn’t be quite so soon.”

Uncle Cid guffawed. “The hell _you_ did.”

A pause, then Cor wryly replied, “What I hope and what I suspect are two different things.”

“Mm, got a point there.”

“I take it there have been no problems here?”

“Nothin’ yet. Been keepin’ a close eye on things, but they ain’t been nowhere near the lights.”

Noctis didn’t hear what Cor said in response, his imagination running wild until it blotted out his awareness of everything else. There were _spies_ near _Hammerhead_?! And Uncle Cid was helping to catch them?! It was the coolest thing to happen in their tiny outpost since…since… Actually, _nothing_ that interesting had ever happened. He personally counted the days when Cor brought the car and he got to see Ignis and Gladio, but that was just for _him_. This was totally different—it was huge!

His uncle was fighting bad guys. He was a hero, just like Cor and Gladio’s dad. He’d never told Noctis, probably so that he wouldn’t try to help, but he _was_.

As excited as that made him—as much as he wanted to run down the stairs and give his uncle the biggest hug in the history of hugs—Noctis forced himself to retreat up to the apartment with carefully silent steps. Uncle Cid had always kept his secrets, so he would do him the same courtesy. Besides, there was no telling what would happen if that information found its way into the wrong hands. They were dealing with spies, which meant his uncle might be in danger if anyone ever found out that he was helping the police keep Hammerhead safe from whatever terrible things they wanted to do. There was always the possibility that they were Niffs, too, and Noctis knew now that they’d never let someone like Uncle Cid live if they found out he was against them.

No, he couldn’t share what he’d heard. Even his two best friends, who were busy pretending that an Ignis-shaped tornado hadn’t just bowled Gladio over, would have to remain in the dark. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them—he did, more than anything!—but he couldn’t take any chances. It was Uncle Cid’s secret to tell, not his.

So, despite the guilty hole it drilled in his chest, he lied to Ignis and said he’d told them when the food would be ready; he kept his thoughts to himself throughout dinner and pretended his entire world hadn’t just been turned on its head in the coolest, scariest way possible.

And that night, when he was ready to explode from the excitement of it all, he curled up and whispered the whole story in Carbuncle’s giant ear. If there was one person he could be sure would never accidentally spill the beans, it was his first best friend.

Between the two of them, he and Carbuncle would keep Uncle Cid and his secret safe from the bad guys no matter what it took.

 

***

 

Why did grown-ups always want to wash their cars? They were just going to get bugs and dust on them again as soon as they started driving. That was kind of the point: they were _supposed_ to get dirty so you didn’t have to.

But no, adults always had to ask Uncle Cid to make sure their cars were clean after he was done working on them. They even paid extra for it. It didn’t matter that the dust would get picked up by the wind and coat the paint in grit before they could get the car completely dried off—it _had_ to be washed.

When he complained about it to Crowe once, she’d said there were big machines that cleaned your vehicle for you in cities like Insomnia. Some of them let you drive through, so you could watch colorful soap spurt from the ceiling like magic rain and see the brushes spin all around you. There were even different scents that made the inside of the car smell nice if you left the air conditioning on!

In Hammerhead, they didn’t have any of that. Instead, as Uncle Cid was fond of joking, they had two sponges for two little hands—because Noctis, being the only one who wasn’t so great _inside_ the garage, had been deemed the best candidate for this grueling task for the last year. (He wasn’t tall enough to reach the windows of most cars before that. Those were the good days.)

He didn’t mind in the middle of the summer, especially if Umbra was visiting. Even though his uncle always warned him not to waste the water, he didn’t actively try to stop Noctis from turning the hose on his canine companion every now and again or using it to cool off. When it was that hot outside, playing in the spray was the best way to spend the daylight hours; he could set aside his dislike for washing cars in exchange for a consolation prize like that.

In November, however, when the temperature was starting to drop a little and running the hose meant getting his jacket soaked, he would have loved to tell his uncle’s customers all about those machines. He didn’t, though, because Uncle Cid needed him to do this. It was the family business, and this was his part in it. Maybe it wasn’t quite as important as Cindy’s job, but he had to take pride in being involved in _some_ way. Sure, he knew they wouldn’t hold it against him if he had nothing to do with the garage; he hadn’t when he was really little, and other than washing cars once or twice a week, he still didn’t. Regardless, he could tell that it made Uncle Cid happy when he took some of the responsibility off his shoulders and showed an interest in what he and Cindy were so passionate about. If it meant seeing him smile like that—with his whole face—then Noctis figured frozen fingertips were worth it.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t grumble and complain while he soaped up the hood of a busted old junker that looked like someone threw wheels on a tin can. Seriously, he didn’t need his uncle or Cindy to tell him that the car shouldn’t be able to drive down the road. It was practically falling apart!

“Thing’ll look like a polished chocobo turd,” Uncle Cid had groused when he rolled it out of the garage with an apologetic grimace and claimed that it was Noctis’s next job.

His description was spot on.

The lady in the funny red hat and huge glasses didn’t really care about that, though. His uncle told her over and over again that the wash was extra, yet she’d been adamant that her _babies_ couldn’t be seen riding around in a filthy car when she had a reputation in the scientific community to think about. Noctis had no idea what that meant; all he did know was that the only other passengers were a bunch of red frogs. Admittedly, it was awesome that she had a cage of creatures that looked just like the one from his favorite story, but calling them her _babies_? It was obvious that she was a little…different. Uncle Cid had another word for it, one that Cindy always stopped him from using. He figured _different_ was accurate enough, though.

“Make sure you remember to get that spot between the mirror and the door now!"

 _Bossy_ was also a good word for her. That was the third so-called reminder she’d issued in as many minutes, and Noctis paused in his work to glare at her over his shoulder. No, that wasn’t very polite to do to a customer. _Yes_ , she deserved it.

Fortunately, his uncle was quick to ascertain when he’d reached the end of his rope and stepped in to save the day.

“Sania, you been waitin’ here long enough,” he grumbled, waving a hand as if to shoo her away. “Why don’t you head on over to the diner ‘n’ see if Takka’ll cook up somethin’ for you?”

Either she was oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t really asking or she just didn’t care. Whichever it was, Sania shook her head with a brisk, “No no no, that won’t do at _all_! I need to keep an eye on my babies.”

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to them frogs while you’re gone.” Noctis couldn’t tell, but it sure _sounded_ like Uncle Cid rolled his eyes.

“You say that, but those red ones are feisty!” she warned him emphatically. “One minute, they’re where you left them. The next, poof! Gone, gone, never to be seen again.”

Sighing, his uncle intoned, “You don’t say.”

“You’re darn right, I do. These little guys are going to be just the breakthrough we’ve been looking for as soon as I get them back to my lab in Lestallum.”

Uncle Cid hummed curiously before he lilted, “Thought you said that lab‘a yours was over near Alstor.”

“One of many, Cid. A scientist has to be adaptable and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

While Sania went on and on about how red frogs were somehow going to save the world, Cindy plopped another bucket of soapy water down beside him and whispered, “Eviction notice, I reckon.”

Noctis glanced over to make sure their demanding customer was busy before quietly asking, “What’s that?”

“Means she prob’ly got thrown out,” she giggled in response. “Ain’t nobody gonna want all them frogs hoppin’ ‘round the place, are they?”

That was for sure. If they really were as difficult to corral as Sania made it sound, then Noctis could imagine that people would get pretty tired of finding them wandering where they weren’t supposed to be. Every time he peeked in the window to see them caged up on the passenger seat, he shuddered to think of what it would be like to have one jump out at him when he least expected it. They looked cool, no doubt about that, but he was finding that he preferred pictures of them to the real thing.

Cindy must have noticed his reluctance to go anywhere near that side of the car, because she cast him a pitying glance before grabbing another sponge and starting on the back. It wouldn’t seem like much to her, but for Noctis, it was an enormous relief. He was barely tall enough to scrub the hood without having to jump on top of the car to reach it all; the back was even _higher_ off the ground, and it took forever when he had to keep moving his stool. Since Cindy was so much taller than him now that she was fourteen and _old_ and stuff, it would take way less time than usual.

If she cared that another pair of hands had come within reach of her babies, Sania seemed to think better of mentioning it. She still watched them like a hawk, but Uncle Cid kept her distracted with questions about whatever it was she did when she wasn’t ordering them around. None of her answers made any sense to Noctis; honestly, it didn’t even sound like _science_. Then again, he wasn’t exactly an expert on that kind of thing the way she claimed to be—all he knew was what Crowe had taught him about the weather and things like that. She said they’d get to animals, which was so exciting that he could hardly wait, but that would be when he was older. For now, he had to trust that the crazy things Sania was saying actually _did_ have something to do with science and she wasn’t simply planning on selling her babies to some fancy restaurant. (Ignis said frog legs were a delicacy, but Noctis thought they were just _disgusting_.)

After a while, her words started blurring together with the constant back and forth of his sponge against the chipping paint that was barely clinging to the car. He wasn’t sure how long he had been standing in the same spot, staring at the same patch of color, but it had to have been some time—Cindy had already finished washing the rest by that point and was nudging him aside so she could dry what little he’d accomplished on his own. He offered her a bashful grin that she dismissed with a teasing roll of her eyes, letting him know that she wasn’t mad he’d been slacking off. It was just so hard to concentrate when Sania was droning on and on and _on_ about… _frogs_.

They were all lucky that she was in something of a hurry. Otherwise, they probably would have been stuck hearing about the different variations of the bajillion species she alleged that there were. As soon as Noctis and Cindy dragged their buckets and wet towels away from the car, though, Sania hopped in and sped off almost without another word. Except for Cor, Noctis was hard pressed to think of a time he’d ever seen anyone move that fast—not that he was complaining.

Uncle Cid didn’t look at all sad to see her go, either.

“Ain’t met a woman that exhaustin’ since your mama,” he grumbled, tapping the brim of Cindy’s hat good-naturedly. She swatted at his hand and threw one of the towels over her shoulder.

“Reckon my mama had more sense.”

“Don’t see no brothers ‘n’ sisters hoppin’ around, do you?”

Scoffing softly, Cindy simply shook her head and hauled the buckets over to the side of the road to dump them into the bushes. Noctis, however, sidled up to his uncle and tugged on his sleeve.

“How come she called them her babies?” he inquired, still baffled by that whole exchange. “They’re _frogs_.”

Uncle Cid snorted, picking him up with a groan of exertion and carrying him back into the garage. “Gettin’ too heavy for this,” he mumbled distractedly before explaining, “and people jus’ say that ‘bout stuff they love sometimes.”

Noctis frowned. That…was stupid. He loved Carbuncle a lot, but he was Noctis’s best friend—not his _baby_.

His uncle must have realized he wasn’t following, because he dropped down onto a stool by the workbench with Noctis in his lap and squinted in the way that always indicated he was deep in thought. A moment later, he snapped his fingers.

“All right, got a example for you. Worked a few years back in someone else’s garage, and he had this _beautiful_ car. It was a piece‘a work. Custom classic ‘n’ everythin’.”

That sounded pretty special, even if he had no clue what a _custom classic_ was, so Noctis nodded.

“Anyway, this car. He loved that thing so much that he called it his baby till he had one’a his own to take care of.”

Okay, that sort of made a little more sense. But…

“It’s still weird,” decided Noctis resolutely. His skeptical expression broke into giggles as he squirmed away from Uncle Cid’s tickling fingers.

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“Uh huh!”

“Maybe you jus’ don’t understand ‘cause you ain’t a grown-up yet,” his uncle teased, poking his nose to give him a chance to breathe.

Noctis scrunched up his face and taunted him right back, “ _Grown-ups_ are weird.”

Eyes going wide, Uncle Cid put a hand to his heart as if Noctis had mortally wounded him. “All grown-ups?”

“ _All_ grown-ups,” he confirmed with a nod for good measure.

“Well, I’mma let you in on a li’l secret,” whispered his uncle, pulling him close. “You ready?”

Already wary, Noctis brought his shoulders up to his ears against the tickle of his breath and murmured, “Yeah…?”

“That means you’re gonna be as weird as me one day.”

“No!” whined Noctis. He shook his head ardently when Uncle Cid grinned at him the way adults did every time they talked about how he’d feel a certain way when he was older.

“I’m gonna remind you ‘bout that when you’re a weird, crazy ol’ coot like your Uncle Cid,” he laughed, ruffling Noctis’s still damp hair.

Pretending to gag, he crossed his arms tightly over his chest and huffed, “I’m _never_ gonna get old.”

“You ain’t, huh?” inquired his uncle softly. When Noctis glanced up from where he’d been adamantly refusing to look at his taunting smirk, he saw that Uncle Cid’s face was a lot sadder than it had been a moment ago.

_…Did I say something bad?_

That happened sometimes: Noctis would make a comment he thought was normal, but even though his uncle humored him, it would be obvious that he was upset. And, from the looks of things, he’d done it again. The problem was that he could never figure out what made him so sad! If he could, he’d stop saying it. Instead, they got stuck in this awkward rut where Noctis was too worried that he’d messed up to ask how, and Uncle Cid loved him too much to just tell him.

This time wasn’t any different, although his uncle tried to hide whatever was bothering him fairly quickly. His smile widened again, and his arms tightened into a bone-crushing hug, forcing Noctis to tuck his head under Uncle Cid’s chin to avoid it poking into his eye.

He was quiet for another long moment before his chest rumbled with his soft, “Let’s hope that ain’t true.”

Noctis decided not to argue this time. He honestly couldn’t imagine what it would be like to get as old as Uncle Cid, but if he said it was something that should happen, then he’d take his word for it. Besides, being old probably wasn’t that bad. His uncle was constantly complaining about his back, so that didn’t sound great. That couldn’t be all there was, though. Grown-ups didn’t have a bedtime, and they could eat as much dessert as they wanted; Nyx told him that when he first moved away from home, he ate an _entire meal_ of just cake. (He’d also said that he threw it all up again, which was gross, but Noctis couldn’t help thinking it would be worth it.) Plus, some adults got to go on adventures all the time!

Maybe when he grew up, he’d be a hunter like his uncle’s friend Dave. Or, if Gladio taught him a lot about how to defend himself, he could be a police officer too! He wouldn’t want to be a soldier since that sounded scary, and Sania’s brand of science was just plain strange, but there had to be plenty of other jobs that would let him explore the world outside Hammerhead just like they did. And at the end of the day, he’d come home and still get to be with Uncle Cid and Cindy.

Okay, so being a grown-up didn’t sound _too_ bad. He could reserve judgment for a while, especially if it made Uncle Cid happy.

As it was, he already seemed reluctant to let Noctis go. They sat together while Cindy bustled around the garage, putting away the equipment they’d used that day and making sure everything was ready for tomorrow. The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time she was finished, and Noctis’s stomach rumbled loudly enough to make Uncle Cid chuckle.

“I reckon it’s that time,” he sighed, relinquishing his hold and lifting Noctis onto his feet. He tried not to miss how warm his uncle’s hug was when the chill evening breeze made him remember that his sleeves were still a bit damp from his earlier trials.

“It’s already _past_ suppertime,” Cindy chided absently as she fiddled with organizing socket wrenches by size. In her opinion, it was a crime to close up the garage for the night without that last, vital rite completed.

Grunting in agreement, Uncle Cid nudged Noctis’s shoulder. “How’s ‘bout you run on over to Takka’s and grab us somethin’?”

“Okay,” he agreed past a yawn. When his uncle raised an eyebrow at him, he hurried to continue, “What should I get?”

“Whatever’s good’ll be jus’ fine. And after _that_ ,” Uncle Cid added with a knowing grin, “bed.”

“But I’m not tired!”

“Sure, you ain’t. Now, go on, git. ‘Fore it gets much later.”

Noctis yelped, hopping out of the way before his uncle could swat him across the backside and running out of the garage.

In spite of what he’d told Uncle Cid, he _was_ dragging a little when he made it past the gas station and approached the diner. It had been a long day: he’d washed two cars all by himself—a new record! He hadn’t realized just how much it wiped him out until he’d stopped and sat down. Now, although he would fight sleep until the absolute last minute he possibly could, he had to admit that it would be nice to crawl into bed and cuddle with Carbuncle to tell him about his minor adventures. He never came outside when Noctis washed cars; they both knew how that would end. That meant there was plenty to share by the end of the day, and he was already smiling at the thought of what his best friend would say when he told him about Sania and her _babies_.

Speaking of which, Noctis wondered if he’d spent a bit _too_ much time around her brood, because he could have sworn he just heard something croak. Great, now he would probably dream about a bunch of slimy little—

There it was again. And again.

A flash of red caught his eye, and he turned his head just in time to spot a frog shooting out from behind one of the gas pumps into the parking lot. For a second, all he could do was stare at it. It had to be a coincidence. There was no _way_ it came from Sania’s car—he hadn’t even opened the door!

…But Cindy probably had when she dried around the edges, just like Uncle Cid taught them. One of the frogs must have seen that as its chance to escape and made a run—well, a _hop_ —for it. The same way it was now making its way towards the road as if sensing freedom at hand.

Noctis could have let it go. He could have turned around and walked into the diner like he was supposed to.

But the frog prince wouldn’t.

It was just a story—he’d always known that, even when Crowe first told it to him. None of what happened was _real_ , but…wasn’t the point of it still a good one? That you should help others when they needed it? That was part of the reason why it had become his favorite tale, after all. Noctis had long since lost count of how many times he’d reread it, both with his teacher and by himself once he got the whole reading thing down. (Mostly. Ignis’s books were still _way_ too hard.) If he abandoned Sania’s escaped specimen, it might get run over by a car or eaten by another animal or even lose its way and never find the water again…

And if Sania came back looking for it, she’d be really upset to find out that anything had happened to one of her babies…

Noctis couldn’t turn his back on the wayward frog. He just couldn’t.

So, taking off his jacket, he tiptoed to the edge of the street and tossed it like a net towards his prey. The latter, however, was supremely uncooperative and jumped a few inches to the side before the heavy black material could trap it.

_Figures…_

Noctis glanced at the garage, but Cindy and Uncle Cid must have already gone upstairs: the doors were closed, and he could see light in the apartment windows. The best idea when he had a problem was to tell a grown-up; that was what Crowe and Nyx always said. But if he ran back home, the frog would probably be long gone by the time he returned with help, _if_ Uncle Cid didn’t tell him to just let it go.

In fact, he was already losing his chance—his quarry dove underneath the guard rail on the opposite side of the street, a splotch of red against the darkening background of the dust. If he didn’t move quick, he’d never catch it!

Just as he was about to step out into the road, Noctis froze in place when he remembered what his uncle had told Cor a couple of weeks ago: there were spies outside Hammerhead, ones that only stayed where you couldn’t see them in the light. What if he ran into one of them? What if they knew who he was—who Uncle Cid was?!

It would be okay, he tried to tell himself. He just had to be back before it got dark. The spies wouldn’t catch him then, even if they _were_ watching.

And Uncle Cid would be so proud that he saved one of Sania’s babies _and_ escaped from the bad guys. Nyx and Crowe would, too. Ignis might lecture him a little, but he and Gladio would be impressed, all the same.  

With that thought in mind, Noctis swallowed his lingering doubts, looked both ways, and sprinted across the street. Everything was going to be _fine_. He’d be back before dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Look at this absolutely amazing art from midnightninja14!!!](http://midnightninja14.tumblr.com/post/164413824244/twenty-years-was-not-such-a-long-time-walk) We've got baby Noct in the house, you guys!!! Thank you so much, Midnight! <3


	11. The Hanging Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Although the cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter was necessary, I hate to do that to you guys, so I'm bringing you chapter eleven a little earlier than usual. Enjoy!

Another day, another frozen dinner in front of the television. It wasn’t a glamorous existence, but Nyx knew that there were worse ways to spend an evening.

All things considered, he should be grateful to be here in the first place. How many other Glaives could say that they were selected for a special mission in their first month on the job? In a word, _none_. He still remembered panicking when the king summoned him to his private chambers with strict instructions to tell no one, not even his captain, that he had so much as caught a whiff of their sovereign’s cologne. His first thought was that he’d landed himself in trouble, that he’d done something so heinously inappropriate that it warranted King Regis presiding over his sentence rather than his commanding officer. When he’d reached his destination, a bundle of nerves beneath a stoic façade, it was to discover the exact opposite. His relief at not having to improvise a defense for some unknown transgression, however, was short-lived.

It remained to this day one of the strangest conversations he’d ever had, and that was saying something when he spent a substantial portion of his time listening to backwater hicks at a tiny diner in the middle of nowhere. According to King Regis, his service record was _commendable_ and _beyond reproach_ —not too surprising when he was twenty years old and had barely _started_ that service yet. He hadn’t contradicted his monarch, though; if anything, he’d probably been a bit overenthusiastic with his gratitude. Embarrassing reactions to such unexpected praise notwithstanding, the king had decided he was mature and trustworthy enough for a mission of utmost importance and urgency: standing watch over the crown prince of Lucis.

No pressure.

Looking back on it, Nyx figured he’d probably been more than a little foolish to jump right in without a second thought. Those were tough times, though, and he doubted that anyone else would have done differently in his position. He hadn’t been present at the prince’s fateful christening to hear the curse in its entirety, but rumor of it had spread throughout the Glaive and half the city like wildfire within hours. All he could remember was how infuriated he’d felt, imagining this helpless little baby doomed to die in someone else’s pissing contest. If something like that had happened to his sister, he would have torn the world apart to keep her safe.

So, it really wasn’t much of a surprise that that was exactly what the king was prepared to do. Well, insofar as any ruler could toss caution to the wind in favor of protecting his child. There were too many sons of Lucis to think about, sons who were dying in this senseless war of imperial aggression—while King Regis’s son took priority over all of them for obvious reasons, there was only so much he could do as combination monarch and father.

That was where Nyx came in.

The king and his Shield had warned him that the consequences of agreeing to be the prince’s protector might be difficult to endure: it was a job without glory, without praise, even without reward most of the time. Choosing this path meant going it alone for twenty long years as nothing more than a pair of eyes, ears, and hands. His name would be all he kept of his old self, discarding the rest until he returned to the Crown City with his charge at the end of their shared exile. If he accepted their offer, he could tell no one of his whereabouts or duties, family and commanding officer included. From that moment on, he would answer directly to Clarus Amicitia, Marshal Leonis, and the king himself. They would be his sole points of contact, and even then, their interactions were limited to bare necessity.

It was a hell of a deal, but what was he going to do—say no? That would have been pretty tacky when the king and queen were hanging on his answer with a pitiable sort of desperation he’d only seen once, staring back at him from his own mirror. The aftermath of his parents’ deaths when he was just a teenager left him reeling as he struggled to come up with a way to support his kid sister all by himself. There hadn’t been many options for him, but there was still hope for King Regis. Unlike Nyx, his world wasn’t dead yet. And it was his duty as a Glaive and a citizen of Lucis to see to it that it stayed that way.

So, he’d offered his loyal service, made his peace, and stepped into the proverbial shadows. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Nyx Ulric of Galahd had ceased to exist; he’d vanished into the bowels of the Citadel, never to be seen or heard from again. The moment he swore his secret oath to King Regis, one very different from his induction to the Kingsglaive, he was alone.

Or as alone as anyone could be in the middle of a crowd with an eight-year-old trailing after you, which honestly wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

After the first couple of years, the prince had kind of grown on him. It was an uphill battle for a while, but Nyx thought he was owed the time to adjust. Being around kids wasn’t easy for him, not when it only served as a reminder of just how long it had been since he’d seen his sister. She wasn’t a child anymore; in fact, he wouldn’t be too surprised if she’d gotten married and had a couple of her own. Still, that was the way he’d always see her, and he used to remember it every time the prince toddled into the diner with Cid.

Try as he might to avoid becoming attached as more than just a guard, though… Well, the kid had a knack for getting under your skin. He’d come running in every morning with that huge grin and wide, innocent eyes, asking Nyx if he could make them breakfast; the gentle tug on the leg of his pants (and then his sleeve when the prince was tall enough to reach it) had become routine by now, although he could usually predict what added request Noctis would have. It was kind of cute. Just a little.

…Okay, maybe it was downright adorable, but Nyx would never say that out loud.

Not that that stopped Crowe from teasing him about it all the time when she was in Hammerhead— _big brother Glaive_ , she called him if there was no risk of being overheard. Even Cid had a way of eyeing him when he’d unlock his phone screen to a selfie he’d taken with Noctis at his meager excuse for a seventh birthday party. The event itself hadn’t been much, just him and Crowe joining Noctis and his foster family with a chocolate cake he’d whipped up at work that day; the kid’s friends hadn’t even been there, in spite of the marshal’s best efforts to attend. Minor shindig or not, the prince had gone through the roof when he saw the little amber marble Nyx had wrapped up as a present to add to his growing treasure collection. Earth gemstones were a gil a dozen these days, but the way Noctis reacted, you would have thought Nyx gave him a block of pure gold. He’d held it up nice and high for their picture, the ostensibly precious commodity gleaming under the fluorescent lights of the apartment in stark contrast to the dark, empty space where one of his front teeth should have been. It was the sort of photo Nyx sent to the marshal immediately when he got home that night, knowing that the king would want to see it on a special occasion he couldn’t be a part of.

The side of him that personified the regular human being he pretended to be by day was allowed to bask in the satisfaction of bringing a smile to the prince’s face in that picture. The side of him that was and always would be a Kingsglaive operative had very different reasons for taking it in the first place.

Reasons that he was damn glad for when his phone started ringing in the middle of some terrible show about a bunch of people who thought they could sing—one of the seemingly _thousands_.

Tossing his half-eaten meal to the side, Nyx hauled himself off his couch and trudged unhurriedly into the kitchen. Honestly, he should have insisted that renovating an old barn in the middle of The Three Valleys was unnecessary. The place was bigger than he knew what to do with; cleaning it was more of a hassle than he felt like tolerating most days. Given how little time he spent there, he probably could have made do with the shack across the street and been just as comfortable. When he wasn’t working at the diner, he was wandering the outskirts of Hammerhead keeping an eye on Noctis, unbeknownst to the prince; when he wasn’t doing _that_ , he was running all over Eos trying to gather ingredients Takka hadn’t picked up. It was likely that’s who was calling now, ready to send him on another wild goose chase for a damn tomato.

Needless to say, he was more than a little concerned to see Cid’s name on the display above Noctis’s grinning face. A glance at the clock told him this wasn’t a social call—there was no way grumpy old Cid would ring him up at almost eight o’clock to shoot the breeze.

Nyx snatched his phone off the counter and swiped up on the screen, already speaking before he had the device to his ear. “What happened?”

“Get’cher ass out here, Ulric,” came Cid’s startlingly frantic reply. “Boy’s gone missin’.”

If there was enough time to panic, he would have. Instead, the training he hadn’t used in years kicked into gear immediately.

“How long has he been gone?” Nyx demanded, striding purposefully back through the living room and taking the stairs three at a time.

“Been ‘bout an hour. Sent ‘im over to the diner, but Takka said he never showed up.”

It took every ounce of patience and self-control he possessed not to ask why the hell Cid hadn’t called earlier. There was no excuse to wait an hour, not when they were talking about the prince’s safety. The outpost was minuscule; it should have taken him ten minutes to get to Takka’s and back, twenty if they were busy. Maybe that was just him thinking like a Glaive instead of a civilian, but it still had him biting back a sigh of frustration nevertheless. They didn’t have time for petty rebukes when too much had already been wasted.

“Did he see if he was with anyone?” he asked in a tone of forced calm as he flipped on his bedroom light. Switching the call to speaker, he tossed the phone onto the bed and knelt beside an old trunk on the far side of the room.

“Doesn’t look like it,” reported Cid. He must have been moving, because Nyx caught the slightly breathless quality of his voice with ease. “Them security cameras of yours didn’t show nobody else.”

Well, that was at least something—a kidnapping would have been all they needed. With steady fingers, he worked at the combination lock and called over his shoulder, “Probably saw something and wandered off. Any idea what that might be?”

“Not a one.”

Of course not. That would be too simple.

“I’m on my way out right now,” Nyx reassured him as evenly as he could. “I’ll make a sweep of the valley and work my way back to you. He can’t have gotten too far.”

“You do that. I’ll grab a car ‘n’—”

“No, Cid. You stay put.”

There was a pause while he set the lock aside and propped open the trunk. When Cid answered, the slightly shaky, worried pseudo-parent was nowhere to be found.

“If you think I’m jus’ gonna sit here ‘n’ _wait_ —”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” interrupted Nyx before he could get on a roll. It had been over an hour since anyone had seen his charge; they didn’t have time to argue about this. “It’s dark, and you know what’s out here.”

“Damn right I do. The hell you think I’d stay here for?”

Cid was a reasonable guy—usually. So, Nyx had no qualms about being frank with him: “Because right now, the prince has to be my priority. I can’t help you if you run into trouble.”

Snorting derisively, Cid retorted, “I can take care’a myself just fine. Ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me.”

“And if you can’t? If you get stuck or worse? How do you think the king would like it if he found out the guy taking care of his son went and got himself killed when he didn’t have to?”

It was a low blow, but it did the trick: he had no immediate response to that. The line went so quiet that he wondered for a moment if Cid had hung up on him until he peered over to see the timer still ticking away. Nyx used the opening to press his advantage, knowing it would be a simple victory now.

“He’s going to want you there when I bring him home, not out in the middle of the desert. Besides, he’d probably think it was his fault if anything happened to you.”

Bingo. _That_ was the straw that broke the chocobo’s back. After another few seconds of silence, there was an odd noise somewhere between a grunt and a hiccough before Cid muttered, “All right, fine. I’ll stay here. But you best find him quick, Ulric.”

“Fast as I can,” he promised, reaching over to end the call before turning back to the trunk. He hadn’t opened it in the eight years he’d lived there; he’d never had reason to before tonight. So, it was indescribably surreal to run a hand over the uniform he never wore and pick up the earpiece he never used. Nyx had spent every day of his exile hoping that he wouldn’t need anything in this trunk, at least not until he escorted Noctis back to the Citadel. It looked like he wasn’t going to make that goal.

As much as seeing his old fatigues filled him with a sense of _home_ he hadn’t felt in longer than he cared to think about, there would be other occasions to get sentimental over it. For now, he adjusted the black plastic arch around his ear and cast a regretful glance at the hilts of his daggers where they poked up in the corner beside his uniform.

There was no sense in venturing outside unarmed when night had fallen; doing so would be disastrous these days, what with all the daemons prowling around. This wasn’t a standard rescue op, though—Noctis _could not_ be around swords or any other blade longer than cutlery. That wasn’t his rule, yet he understood why the king had made it all the same. The curse’s trigger was only supposed to be tripped by the prince’s own sword, but there was no telling how that might change when he didn’t _have_ one. As such, Nyx eyed every new face with suspicion and scanned their clothes for the slightest indication that they were wielding anything more dangerous than a fileting knife. The hunters that frequented the outpost were of no concern; their job was about quantity, not quality, so guns were more useful to them. Cid had gotten rid of any extra weapons he’d kept when he left the Citadel after he agreed to take Noctis in, and there was no reason for anyone else in Hammerhead carry any. Even Crowe, much as she hated to do it, left her armaments in Insomnia during her weekly stints as the prince’s tutor. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a Glaive to have absolutely nothing to defend themselves with, but they made what sacrifices were necessary to safeguard their prince’s life.

That was why he quashed the desire to grab his preferred weapons and instead chose a pistol Marshal Leonis had presented to him when he left the Crown City. It didn’t take a connoisseur or even a fan to appreciate what a beautiful piece it was with its silver filigree inlaid along the black barrel. _A weapon befitting the prince’s temporary shield_ , he’d called it, and Nyx hadn’t been too proud to downplay the compliment. The royal family was counting on him and _only_ him to defend their son with his life.

And he would do it gladly.

Strapping the holster around his torso, Nyx darted back downstairs and out the front door before he tapped the side of his earpiece and waited. The answer was predictably prompt.

“What’s wrong?” the king’s Shield immediately inquired.

“His Highness is missing,” replied Nyx as he glared into the shadows. “I’m in pursuit now, sir.”

Clarus didn’t waste a moment in bolting down the same path he had earlier: “How long?”

“About an hour, sir.”

“Abduction or separation?”

“Looks like just separation. Cid said he was alone.”

There was a muttered curse on the other end of the secure channel before Clarus warned, “Find him, but proceed with caution. You’ve lost the light.”

That was one thing he really didn’t need to be told. There was a strip of orange on the horizon, barely visible over the rocky hills surrounding his abode, but the sun itself had long since vanished for the night. Nyx heard the distant sounds of what could have easily been either grass ruffled by a sudden breeze or a daemon stalking its prey. If there was any luck to be had today, it was the former.

“Will do, sir. I’d like to request that medics be placed on standby just in case—whoever can be spared that the king trusts.”

“You’ll have them,” confirmed Clarus in no uncertain terms. “We’ve prepared for every contingency.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Keep me apprised of the situation.”

“You’ll be the first to know,” Nyx agreed, tapping his earpiece again to disconnect the transmission. Gun loaded and backup confirmed, he squinted at the darkness beyond the flood lamps he’d installed around the barn and set out into the night.

There was something to be said for having spent eight years scouting around Hammerhead like some kind of spy: he didn’t need light to show him where he was going. Of course, it would have been a hell of a lot easier, but he tried not to dwell on what he couldn’t change. At this point, his mind was too focused on the task at hand and the logistics of how he was going to find the needle in the proverbial haystack. At least there wasn’t much in the way of trees or foliage out here; the most he usually saw was scrubby bushes that lent little to the overall Leiden aesthetic. On days when he had to walk to work in the blistering heat, he admittedly wouldn’t have minded a little shade—now, he was glad the landscape was lacking in that department. More shadows would be a detriment to his mission, and Noctis was still so small that he could easily be hidden beneath a thick enough bush. Open land was better: he could see further and make out subtle differences in color underneath the rising moon.

He just needed to keep thinking like that and not get hung up on the emotional side of this whole mess. That was how they were going to get through—with strength and focus.

Nyx let the daily diner employee fall by the wayside as he picked his way carefully through the darkness towards one of the nearby dirt roads. That guy couldn’t keep the prince safe, but the Glaive that usually let him take point _could_. So, he became the person he’d been eight years ago, if a little wiser and a lot more experienced.

For nearly the last decade, he had spent any free time he _did_ manage to wrangle ensuring that the skills he’d learned in training and his short tenure with the Kingsglaive didn’t go to waste. He still worked on his physique and stamina (all those chocolate chip pancakes really weren’t helping), and switching from daggers to a gun meant target practice until his eardrums were about to explode. When he was in town, the marshal would even arrange to meet and assess his abilities. So far, he hadn’t been found wanting, but that didn’t mean he was about to start sitting around all day eating Takka’s salmon surprise—the surprise being that it wasn’t quite as disgusting as it looked, but not by much.

All those hours, those _years_ of effort without any return on his investment were finally paying off. Nyx’s muscles didn’t protest in the slightest when he had to crouch low behind a rock to avoid detection by a passing beast that would soon wander into the jaws of something far worse; it was no strain to clamber atop the towering hill overlooking Hammerhead and the surrounding flatlands. His breath was steady, his heart rate even, and as he surveyed the region where he suspected he would find the prince, a calm descended on him that seemed to sharpen his vision.

All to no avail: even from this vantage point, there was nothing to see. No daemons, which was a relief, but also no child.

“Damn,” Nyx cursed quietly, glancing to the left of the outpost with a calculating frown. Maybe it was too optimistic to believe that Noctis would be ambling about in such an obvious place. He was young, but he wasn’t stupid: he knew he shouldn’t be out by himself after dark, and there was no way he could get lost if he stayed within sight of Hammerhead. It was still unlikely that he’d traveled far on his own, though, which left one of two probable scenarios: he was deliberately moving _away_ from home, or something was very wrong.

Scanning his mental map of the area, Nyx briefly considered abandoning his current course to scour the Weaverwilds instead. Perhaps Noctis had tried to return to the outpost and was merely diverted or waylaid somehow. It was dubious that he made it to Keycatrich Trench or the debris fields where Lucis had once waged war against the empire in such a relatively short amount of time—at least, that was what he hoped. The area was crawling with creatures that made their homes in the rusting stacks of metal and glass; if Noctis didn’t hurt himself on the ancient refuse, there were plenty of other things that would gladly make up the difference.

Then again, while the Weaverwilds were a reasonable enough guess, the prince might also have followed the road towards Insomnia. In that case, he would eventually run into the guards and Glaives that always patrolled the approach to their capital. There was no question as to whether Noctis would be safe in their custody, but it was never as simple as that. Nyx could imagine a kid getting scared and hiding from who he would see as frightening pursuers; with only a few working streetlights mounted at intervals, it would be literal child’s play for him to slip past them unnoticed, especially when he was undoubtedly dressed in black as usual. They could mistake him for a rock, a shrub, or perhaps even just another shadow drifting across the landscape.

They could lose him entirely or never see him at all because he _hadn’t_ gone in that direction.

They could find him mangled and beyond saving elsewhere, days from now and far too late.

There were so many possibilities, and although Nyx didn’t have the _time_ to sit here vacillating between one or the other or the _other_ besides that, his legs refused to make the decision for him. Going the wrong way could potentially mean a rather abrupt end to his service. He would deserve it, too, like the damn disgrace he was proving to be: tracking was one thing he’d always been good at, and his captain had praised him for it on numerous occasions, yet it amounted to nothing in that moment. Hunting down a missing person would have been a simple matter under different circumstances; in any other situation, he would have thought through the mind of his quarry and considered their most likely course.

This, however, was nothing like a routine manhunt. He wasn’t trying to fathom the mind of a dangerous criminal intent on bringing harm to the royal family; it wasn’t his job to keep the Citadel running without so much as a crack in its security. No, he was dealing with a kid—an irrational, nonsensical, probably terrified _kid_. Adult or Glaive, it didn’t matter: nothing came to mind that would have driven him away from Hammerhead after dark, especially without telling Cid. He hadn’t been abducted that they were aware of, nor had he returned home. There were any number of directions he could have taken or paths he could have followed, but without knowing why he’d left in the first place, Nyx may as well be hunting for a speck of salt in the sea.

Ultimately, he decided he had no other choice but to call for more backup. Cid, Takka, hunters, the whole damn Kingsglaive and Crownsguard—whatever it took, they needed to find the prince. Nyx needed reinforcements. There was no way he could do this by himself, although it stung to admit.

After all these years, when the time finally came for him to do the job he’d been chosen specially to perform, he’d choked. Some hero he was.

He never got a chance to call in the cavalry, as it turned out. Just as he made to activate his earpiece, there was a rustle of movement beneath his perch that had him diving forward to look over the edge. If he’d been sitting here all this time when Noctis was _right there_ …

But it wasn’t the prince, to his mingled dismay and relief. Staring up at him was Umbra, that lovable stray and apparently accomplished sneak. Nyx had no idea how he’d suddenly appeared out of thin air—there certainly hadn’t been any other sign of his approach—yet now wasn’t the time to question it. As soon as he verified that he had Nyx’s attention, Umbra let out two resounding barks that echoed in the open air like a death knell. He automatically hastened to muffle the dog before he alerted every daemon on the planet to their whereabouts, but when he dropped to the ground, Umbra was already dashing off towards Longwythe.

“Get back here!” Nyx hissed, reluctant to make any more unnecessary noise.

His caution made no difference to the stray, who only stopped long enough to bark at him in what he would have described as an oddly scolding way. If that were possible for an animal, which it _wasn’t_.

“Great,” he muttered. “Not bad enough I’ve got a prince to look for. Have to watch out for this stupid—”

It was probably a good thing he didn’t finish that sentence. He wasn’t sure whether the gods would actually smite him down for blasphemy, but it was a pretty good possibility given how things were panning out tonight. Up until now, anyway.

Nyx hadn’t gone a step before he caught a glimpse of something round and shiny in the dirt by his shoe where Umbra had been waiting for him. When he bent to pick it up, he could only stare for a few seconds. There was no way one of these would be just lying around out here, which meant…

But it _couldn’t_ be...

Another bark, further away than before, yanked Nyx’s attention away from the Oracle Ascension Coin in his hand. This time, he didn’t vacillate or consider his options. He was willing to take a chance on this. If he was wrong, then he would just keep looking. If he was _right_ , then he could apologize to the Astrals for his near-miss later.

Scrambling to his feet, Nyx veered sharply to the right and raced in the direction Umbra had gone. He had to wonder now if he was wrong and sheer luck wasn’t all that kept the daemons from descending upon them amidst the racket the dog was making; it was just more fuel for the fire of hope that had been rekindled in his chest. It gave speed to his legs and lightened his steps, pushing him faster and faster until he could just make out the white spots of Umbra’s fur over the crest of the next hill. So great was his determination, perhaps his blind _desperation_ , that he only vaguely registered just how far away from Hammerhead the dog was leading him. The lights of the outpost had all but faded into the distance before he careened down the opposite side of the slope and they vanished completely.

Out here, there were no more streetlamps. He could spot a few winking at him from the road, but they were far enough away that they did little to illuminate anything around him. There was a flashlight pinned to his holster that he didn’t dare turn on—maybe Umbra was protected by whatever magical mumbo jumbo he had, but Nyx wasn’t about to take any chances with himself _or_ Noctis. It wouldn’t be enough to keep any daemons at bay, only draw them closer if they spotted him. No, it wasn’t worth the risk.

That turned out to be all the better for him. The land flattened out once he left The Three Valleys behind and was nearing the road to Longwythe Peak, giving him an unobstructed view of his surroundings. His eyes had already adjusted to the almost absolute darkness, so it was relatively simple to spot Umbra ahead, barreling straight towards a figure that loomed up out of the gloom and the tiny bundle at its feet.

Nyx’s entire being went cold, that burst of hope right along with it, as he screeched to a halt. The stance, the robe, the katana that put the marshal’s to shame—he’d only ever seen pictures of Ronin daemons before, but there was no mistaking one now that it was right in front of him. Nor was there any question of what it was after.

The daemon had been frozen with its blade poised over their shared target when Umbra launched himself at the creature. In the blink of an eye, almost too quick to see, it sliced its katana upwards into the dog’s path. Nyx didn’t _think_ it missed, but an instant later, Umbra landed on its other side without a scratch on him and reared back to lunge again. Thoroughly distracted by an active, potent adversary (which was a strange thing to say about a dog, but again, Nyx wasn’t about to judge), the Ronin abandoned its original prey and left itself wide open to an attack from the rear.

The bundle of cloth and flesh huddled on the ground didn’t budge an inch.

What Nyx _really_ wanted in that moment was to have a dagger in the palm of each hand—then he’d go to town on that Ronin the way it deserved for even having the nerve to _exist_.

Maybe it was better that he didn’t. According to what they’d learned during training, a daemon like this one was best handled from a distance. And fortunately, he had just the thing for that.

Slipping the gun out of its holster, Nyx crouched low to the ground and held it steady in both hands. He couldn’t exactly claim to be the best shot in Lucis, but he was no slouch with firearms. Marshal Leonis wouldn’t have given him this one if he was anything less than capable, especially when it might mean accidentally shooting the crown prince in the event of even the slightest mishap. Right now, that didn’t look like it was going to be much of a problem, which was a whole other issue. He needed to make this fast.

It was damn near impossible to line up the shot with Umbra constantly forcing the Ronin to shift positions, although he couldn’t deny that it was satisfying as hell to watch the dog tear at the daemon’s limbs anytime the opportunity presented itself. He gnawed on a wrist, clawed at a leg—at one point, Nyx could have sworn he sent the daemon reeling without the slightest touch whatsoever. There was little room for him to operate without hitting the wrong target, so Nyx could only watch and wait for the opportunity to strike. However, his frustration in that regard was nothing compared to the confusing mix of emotions that had his heart practically beating out of his chest with impatience. He was too far away—from this distance, he couldn’t ascertain the prince’s condition. Unless the daemon was neutralized, and quickly, he was utterly useless to his charge.

That thought was the only thing that kept him from running closer in an attempt to extract Noctis from the fray. It was the sole reason he was able to maintain some semblance of composure as a Glaive until Umbra got the daemon right where he wanted it so he could pull the trigger.

The shot was perfect: it went straight through the Ronin’s head and out the other side. As it would have against any opponent, human and monster alike, that trajectory defused the threat swiftly and surely. Unlike a human, though, the Ronin didn’t bleed. The matter that erupted with the exiting bullet was all dark, the stuff of nightmares instead of nature. It oozed from every pore, and Nyx watched its skin turn blacker than the night sky before the daemon seemed to melt into the ground and disappear.

One moment of silence passed—two. Then Nyx was back on his feet and sprinting towards the prince with reckless abandon.

Umbra was smart enough not to get in his way as he slid to his knees beside where Noctis was sprawled out on his stomach, pressing two fingers to the prince’s throat. It took a second for his own heart to stop beating deafeningly over what he sought, but when it did, he could have collapsed in relief: Noctis’s pulse was by far more rapid than it should have been, but it was _there_. He could work with that.

What he couldn’t work with was the warm, sticky wetness on the back of the prince’s shirt where blood was steadily pouring from an open wound it was too dark to see properly.  

“Noctis,” Nyx called quietly, swallowing the lump in his throat that tasted faintly of failure. “Hey, little man. Can you hear me?”

No response.

With the darkness having shifted from boon to hindrance, Nyx flipped on his flashlight and slowly maneuvered Noctis into his lap, impatiently swiping aside a broken branch in his way. As soon as he got a good look at the prince’s face, he knew exactly what was wrong.

The kid was in shock, that much was obvious. His face was pale, more so than it should have been with the amount of blood loss it appeared that he’d suffered; when Nyx lightly tapped his cheek, his skin was cool to the touch. He would have written it off as a sign that the evening was a chilly one, a herald of the winter that rapidly approached, but the thin sheen of sweat that reflected in the illumination of his flashlight told a different story.

Then those expressive blue eyes cracked opened to show him dilated pupils while Noctis’s lips struggled to soundlessly form his name around increasingly rapid, almost violent breaths. There was a distance in his expression that Nyx didn’t like one bit, and dirt was caked on the side of his face where it had been pressed to the ground.

For now, none of that was important. Noctis was alive, and with any luck, he would be able to tell them what the hell had happened later. _Much_ later.

Nyx managed a weak smile at that and whispered, “Hey, you’re okay. You’re gonna be fine, all right? Try to breathe with me. In and out, come on.”

His exaggeratedly even breathing had little impact on Noctis, who barely seemed to recognize him much less understand the words he said. He kept up a steady stream of them anyway, awkwardly pulling off his own jacket with one hand so he could keep the prince propped up a bit with the other. His flashlight threw strange shadows over the slashed fabric of Noctis’s shirt, enough to make the hole appear much bigger than he hoped the wound itself was; he had to take his best guess as he balled up his coat and pressed it tightly to the spot to stem as much of the bleeding as possible. It looked like he’d gotten there just in time—there was no puddle of life on the ground around him, but he could see spots forming that were already too dark to be just rocks.

They needed to get back to Hammerhead, sooner rather than later.

That was yet another dilemma. Glaives weren’t medical experts by any stretch, but he’d gone through enough first aid training to know that you weren’t supposed to move someone when they were in shock. You kept them warm, you put pressure on their wounds, and you tried to talk them around if you could—check, check, and check. This was a situation they would have classified as outside of standard operating procedures, though. It was dark, and they had confirmation of daemons in the area. Maybe Umbra could keep them at bay, or maybe it was just his imagination and dangerously wishful thinking, but he didn’t like the prospect of waiting around like a sitting duck either way. Noctis was already too young to defend himself; with his injury, there was no way he’d be able to run if necessary. Nyx was his only protection and his only support, at the very least until he could call for backup. If he contacted Clarus, maybe he could send reinforcements to this location. Nyx knew where they were—it was possible.

Would the king agree to that, though? Was there anyone besides his small group of confidants that he felt he could trust enough to send? How long would it take for them to get here if he did—an hour, two? More than that had already elapsed since Noctis had gone missing, by Cid’s estimation, and he wasn’t willing to waste more time when he had no way of gauging the severity of the prince’s wound.

He’d have to make do.

“All right, little man,” Nyx grunted as he carefully lifted the prince into his arms, decision made. “Let’s get you home, huh? Bet old man Cid’s waiting for us.”

Noctis’s whimper made him wince, but there was nothing else he could do to ease the prince’s pain until they reached civilization. With one arm under his back to keep pressure against the jacket covering his wound, all the hope Nyx had was in haste. Maybe he’d pass out—Nyx _hoped_ he passed out.

So, of course, he remained awake and just barely aware the entire trip back. It was an uncomfortable one and took a hell of a lot longer than finding him had, although that may have been Nyx’s mind playing tricks on him. There was just no easy way to bear the grimaces and muffled cries of agony when Noctis was jostled a little too much. Each involuntary exclamation was like a bullet through the heart, and they hadn’t gotten far in his mad dash back to Hammerhead before Nyx thought he might know what that daemon felt like before it dissolved into whatever realm it came from.

More than once, Nyx considered making that call to Clarus, if only to let him know that he had the prince in his care—for whatever that was worth, anyway. Every time it occurred to him, he would glance down at Noctis and abandon the idea immediately. Maybe the kid wasn’t all there right now, but his breathing had finally eased up some and his eyes were glued to Nyx’s face as if he might disappear without any warning. As a Glaive, his duty was to inform his commanding officer that his mission had been a bittersweet success; as the prince’s guardian in the shadows, however, he simply couldn’t do it. Putting the king’s mind at ease—because it was naïve to think that his Shield hadn’t informed him as soon as they’d disconnected—wasn’t his priority. The continued safety and security of his charge _was_. If that meant delaying his check-in until the prince was back where he was supposed to be instead of risking him overhearing a sensitive conversation even in this state of semi-awareness, so be it.

He hardly needed to keep Noctis’s attention on himself, but Nyx still breathlessly murmured reassurances and platitudes all the way back to Hammerhead. Every now and again, he had to wonder if the prince understood him when tiny fingers closed around the front of his shirt and held on tight for a few seconds or minutes. If he had a free hand, he would have given it to him to hold, but all he could manage was hugging him closer to his chest and speeding on his way.

The relief Nyx felt when he lunged over the guardrail and sprinted across the street into the lights of the outpost was all-encompassing. Luck or something a lot more potent had been on their side, as they hadn’t run afoul of any other daemons on the return journey. That was enough to confirm his suspicions that Umbra had _something_ to do with it, and suddenly the coin he’d stuffed unceremoniously into his pocket seemed to weigh a ton. It would probably be worthless, but he resolved to ask Clarus or Marshal Leonis if they were at all aware that the Oracle appeared to be keeping tabs on the prince like the rest of them. If they were, by some unlikely turn of events, then hopefully it wouldn’t be reaching too far above his station to point out that knowing what allies he had on hand would be pretty damn helpful.

They all seemed to come out of the woodwork the second he rounded the bushes in front of the garage: the dog was still following close on his heels, Cid was practically on top of them as soon as they were within view, and Cindy and Takka hovered a few feet behind to give them space.

“He all right?” demanded Cid, although he only had eyes for Noctis. He was bent over the prince with a frown, one hand on his forehead while the other swiped at the filth still clinging to his cheek.

Nyx wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he settled for a quiet, “We need to get him inside.”

That was all the hint Cid needed, because his eyes shot up to meet Nyx’s and he very clearly didn’t like what he found staring back at him. It was effective, though; he backed up just enough for Nyx to move past him into the garage.

For a time, the only sound was their footsteps against the stairs and the creaking of floorboards as they trekked through the apartment. Cid rerouted them when Nyx made to enter Noctis’s room, muttering something about it being too small before guiding him instead to his own. He didn’t have the heart to tell Noctis’s guardian that this wasn’t much bigger; the bed, at least, was large enough for him to settle the prince carefully on his stomach and still have room to sit.

Gingerly, he removed his crumpled jacket from where it had been sandwiched between his arm and Noctis’s injury all this time, distantly noting how Cid told his niece what supplies they would need. Not that water and towels and first aid kits would do them any good, he realized quickly.

The lamp beside the bed flooded the room with light so that Nyx could finally pry the tattered remains of the prince’s shirt aside and examine the wound beneath. It was ugly, worse than anything he would have expected. He’d been hoping that it was just a graze, enough to give him a good shock but ultimately leave no lasting damage—that wasn’t what had happened, though. A long, oozing gash ran from his shoulder blade nearly to his waist in a straight and unmistakable line. Noctis was lucky that the Ronin hadn’t sliced him clean in half. Nyx could only surmise that he’d tried to run and hadn’t gotten out of the way in time for the daemon to strike, cutting his strings but not quite finishing the job.

_Luck. That what we’re calling it?_

First aid kits would be all but useless here, yet Nyx wasn’t about to deny Cid the comfort of action, however futile it might be. They still needed to clean him up and keep pressure on the wound—that was something they _could_ work with. He simply needed to focus on that.

So, he replaced his sodden coat over the injury and let Cid take over for a while, stepping back to relinquish his space beside Noctis. The prince’s eyes blearily fell on his guardian, who ran a hand through his hair as both a gesture of comfort and to brush the dust from his black locks. Before Nyx could leave the room, he heard the tiniest sigh as Noctis murmured something too soft for him to hear.

It never ceased to amaze him how hard-as-nails Cid Sophiar turned into a cup of melted butter around this kid. He leaned forward to put his ear almost to Noctis’s lips and quietly asked, “What’d you say?”

Nyx knelt beside the bed just in time to hear the prince groggily whisper, “Spy…go’the frog…”

“Spy?” he wondered aloud, fully ready to believe that Noctis was simply spouting random imaginings. He wasn’t exactly what Nyx would consider lucid, after all.

His assumption was proven wrong, however, when he glanced up at Cid. He’d always been relatively pale, probably because he insisted on wearing that stupid ball cap of his every waking moment, but his skin was practically translucent as all the blood drained from his face. From the looks of it, that wasn’t just the nonsensical ramblings of a traumatized kid.

“What’s he talking about?” Nyx inquired, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Cid shook his head, closed his eyes, and let out a long sigh. “Ain’t nothin’ important. Jus’ an old man makin’ stupid mistakes, ‘s all.”

Despite the curiosity that blossomed in his chest, Nyx didn’t ask. He _wanted_ to, but the look on Cid’s face made it painfully obvious that the question wouldn’t be welcome. Besides, it already hurt enough to watch him lean over and press a kiss to Noctis’s temple, his fingers gentle as they continued to stroke absently over his head. Cindy’s footsteps were echoing through the apartment as she ran back up from the garage, and Takka was muttering something about returning to the diner to make soup or whatever else Noctis might be able to stomach.

As with so many other things tonight, now wasn’t the time.

Nyx didn’t wait around to witness the added heartbreak of seeing Noctis’s foster family trying to pick up the shattered pieces of their smallest member. He’d already put off his duty long enough. Now that the prince was out of danger for the time being, he had no more excuses.

Silently slipping downstairs, Nyx made his way outside through the garage before he tapped his earpiece to initiate the transmission.

The king’s Shield exuded an air of composure Nyx had to envy when he ordered, “Report.”

“Target secure,” he responded, carefully detached. “Gonna need those medics, sir, and a surgeon if you’ve got one.”

“I will make the necessary arrangements. What is the prince’s status?”

That was where Nyx hesitated half a second before divulging, “Stable, but I’m not sure how long he’ll stay that way. He needs immediate attention, sir.”

“The marshal is dispatching medical personnel as we speak. They should arrive in Hammerhead within the hour.”

“If that’s the best you can do, then we can manage here, sir.”

“We will expedite our resources as much as possible,” Clarus assured him, not that he expected any less. There was a short pause where Nyx mistakenly thought he’d bring their conversation to a close before he added, “You never said what transpired, Ulric.”

No, he hadn’t. The part of him that had been idly watching over the prince all these years couldn’t find an effective way to put it into words, but with the veiled order to finish his report fresh from his commander’s tongue, the Glaive could hardly keep his silence.

“He’s not in any condition to explain why he left, sir,” he elaborated slowly, “but when I found him, he’d crossed a Ronin.”

There was a long silence after that, one in which Nyx felt like he could read everything the king’s Shield was thinking—how devastating it was that this had happened, how fortunate they were that it wasn’t worse, how the king was going to react when he found out. On his side of the transmission, Nyx suddenly felt like he had it easy. From this point on, his role reverted to normal: watch over the prince and keep him safe. That probably meant taking on a lot more shifts at the diner after tonight, but ultimately, it was nothing new or different than usual. Clarus, however, would have to deal with the fallout on a much higher level.

If _Cid_ was this big a mess, he didn’t even want to consider how King Regis was taking it.

Clarus’s exhausted sigh brought his mind back to the conversation in time for him to remark, “The situation is stabilized. The prince is being treated. We must consider this a victory.”

“Can’t argue with that, sir,” Nyx agreed, leaning against the side of the garage and running a hand over his face. The last couple of hours were starting to catch up with him.

His voice must have conveyed as much, because there was a certain warmth in Clarus’s tone when he continued, “You did well tonight, Ulric. If it wasn’t clear before that you were the right choice for this assignment, you’ve proven so today.”

Snorting, Nyx lilted, “Only took eight years, huh, sir?”

“Let us hope that no similar circumstances arise to test your ability again,” chuckled Clarus. It was a brittle sound, as though it might shatter at the slightest provocation, but it was a start.

“You can say that again, sir.”

The conversation waned from there, with Clarus once again praising his success and Nyx promising to let him know if anything changed. When they finally disconnected, he pulled his earpiece out and stared up at the sky, not quite ready to go back inside. Of all the things he ever would have expected to happen tonight, this sure as hell wasn’t one of them. If he could, he’d turn back time and complain less about that stupid frozen dinner that was still sitting on the table in his living room where he’d left it. The alternative was nothing to crow about.

Before he could get too lost in thoughts of what might have been, he felt eyes on him and peered over to see Umbra sitting calmly amidst the cars that were probably not going to get serviced tomorrow. He was another quandary that Nyx really didn’t feel like digging too deeply into at the moment, especially with the piercing, pointed stare Umbra was leveling at him. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that dog was actually human.

After tonight, maybe that wasn’t too far off the mark.

Again, questions for another day. Right now, there was only one place he wanted— _needed_ —to be.

So, he took a deep breath and slowly released it into the night. He was Nyx Ulric, Kingsglaive operative and the man granted the honor of protecting the crown prince of Lucis. He’d come this far, through curses and exile and learning how to cook a decent meal—nothing could scare him away from his duty now.

It was that reminder, that sense of purpose in the face of his destiny, that stuck with him as he ascended the stairs and reentered the quiet apartment. Something like grief seemed to have stolen the life from every room, the echoes of gentle teasing and the ringing of a little boy’s laughter conspicuously absent.

The Glaive soldiered through it.

Nyx made his way back down the hall, pausing at Noctis’s room when a splash of vibrant color caught his eye. With all the… _excitement_ , they’d committed what the prince would consider the most unforgivable of offenses. The thought of his indignant pout brought a smirk to Nyx’s lips, and he took it upon himself to retrieve the lonely, forgotten stuffed animal that had been waiting on the bed for his best friend to return home. What kind of guardian would he be to leave Carbuncle in suspense like that?

When the two of them stepped into Cid’s room together, not much had changed in the tableau of misery: Cid held one of Noctis’s hands in his while simultaneously pressing a red-stained towel to his back, and Cindy sat on the floor nearby looking as desperate to do _something_ as the rest of them felt. It didn’t seem like intruding to join them, so Nyx perched on the other side of the bed and breathed a sigh of relief to discover that Noctis had finally, miraculously drifted out of consciousness.

He didn’t stir once, not for the vehicle that noisily pulled up outside or the rest of them when they cleared the room. He slept through the harried introductions and painful explanations; not a sound passed his lips when the doctor who had brought Noctis into the world injected him with something that would let him escape it for a while.

And when all was said and done—the cleaning, the suturing, the bandaging, the prescribing—Nyx was once again at Noctis’s side, gently wedging Carbuncle under his arm and murmuring softly in his ear, “Sleep well, young prince.”


	12. Hearth and Home

_That should suffice_ , Regis thought, feverishly unfolding the garments he’d ordered one of his guards to bring him. They weren’t much, but that was precisely why they were perfect.

In his daily attire, it would be simple for one of his subjects to recognize him for who he was—certain qualities were unmistakable, after all. His suits, his casual outfits, even his bedclothes were tailored to his exact measurements. The popularly proclaimed _superior_ products sold at the highest-end retailers in Insomnia could not compare when everything he owned was crafted from the finest fabrics available in every free nation of the world, as they should be for their cost. Some would scoff at the notion that he could possibly desire less; Aulea used to jokingly remark that anyone would want the privilege of feeling exasperated with luxurious garments.

 _Wanting_ to be bedecked in such exquisite fashion was irrelevant, however: Regis would have it regardless. He was the king of Lucis, and there was a particular image that a monarch must present to the public without consideration for personal preference or comfort. Therefore, he had found nothing in his closet to suit his clandestine purpose and had to resort to more creative methods if he was to slip out of the Citadel unnoticed.

Dressed in clothing fit for a common laborer… Well, Regis doubted very much whether his own Shield would be able to identify him in a crowd.

That was probably not such a terrible thing.

Clarus wasn’t aware of the plan he’d concocted after learning of what had transpired in Hammerhead, and he intended to keep it that way for as long as possible, preferably until he was far beyond the gates of Insomnia. He could predict what his Shield would say if he knew—it was nothing he hadn’t pointed out on countless occasions over the last eight years. Still, Regis had to do this. He _had_ to.

So, he shed his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly to the other side of the bed, his shirt following shortly after. The plaid monstrosity that took its place was uncomfortable, to put it mildly, yet he ignored the persistent itch to focus on yanking a pair of rough woolen socks out of its packaging. Despite multiple factors necessitating haste, Regis had been forced to request only what could be bought, not stolen with the intent to return it at a later time; insisting upon the latter would have invited questions, none of which he could fabricate an adequate answer for.

Although it was undeniable that the situation was dire, arousing the suspicion of his guards for _any_ reason was unacceptable. He was frantic and panicking and ready to tear the city down if it stood between him and his goal, but Regis knew that he could not abandon all caution lest he place the one star left in his personal night sky in greater peril. Waiting on tenterhooks, while unbearable, would be worth the delay if it eased his passage out of the Citadel without drawing attention.  

With a pair of jeans to replace his slacks and heavy boots rather than his brightly polished shoes, Regis had no doubt that he would be able to slip through the gate to Leide unhindered. The guard that procured the clothing for him may have been capable of identifying his likeness, which was why he had been sent home early for a job well done, but no one else could possibly recognize him as anything other than a contractor exiting the palace after a hard day of manual labor. It was admittedly a hopeful assumption, yet he relied on it nevertheless.

His confidence, however, would apparently be his undoing. Regis had barely reached for the button of his trousers before the door to his chambers burst open, admitting the one person he’d wanted to avoid. A glance over his shoulder told him that his intent was obvious to his Shield without having to exchange words; it was often as though Clarus had a direct view into his soul, which explained his sudden appearance when Regis had stated he wished for privacy. Perhaps he hadn’t lied convincingly enough, or maybe it had been foolish to enlist the assistance of a guard right under Clarus’s nose. Whatever it was, Regis inwardly cursed himself for his transparency while refusing to retreat from the approaching repercussions of his actions. His Shield’s harsh expression, his purposeful gait, his dangerously blazing eyes—his demeanor doubtless could have crippled a lesser man, but none of it gave Regis pause even for a moment.

That merely seemed to heighten the severity of Clarus’s frustration.

“What are you doing?” demanded his Shield in a tone that made it quite clear that he was hovering on the brink of losing his carefully contained temper.

Regis felt no incentive to toy with semantics when it would waste precious minutes he’d already lost in the preparation process. So, he continued changing as he absently inquired, “Why do you ask that which you already know?”

It wasn’t truly a question requiring a response, not that Clarus was keen on providing one. Rather, he threw the door shut behind him and stalked closer, heedless of Regis’s current state of undress.

“To act in the heat of the moment is to forsake reason and invite chaos,” he cautioned, respectfully subdued yet with an underlying spark simply awaiting the opportunity to ignite into something much fiercer. “Surely you know this.”

“I do not need you to remind me, Clarus,” Regis brushed him off. It was difficult not to add that sometimes hesitation in the face of a seemingly impossible situation was the greater evil. Before he could fully turn his back on his closest friend, however, the latter grabbed a handful of his hideous shirt and jerked him around until they stood with the tips of their noses practically touching.

“If that were true, we would not be having this conversation.”

“Quite right—we are _not_ having this conversation.”

Clarus’s eyes narrowed. “So you would cast aside nearly a decade of toil and run off to Hammerhead without any precautions in place or protection for yourself.”

“I have been trained, just as you have,” Regis rejoined, shoving his hand aside and returning to his task. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself without your aid.”

“Putting others at undue risk in the process.”

It was a simple phrase, one that should not have carried the lash of judgment that it did. In that instant, however, it was too much. The insinuation that he could do more harm than good had Regis whirling around and fisting his hands in the front of his Shield’s shirt.

“He is my _son_!” Shaking him roughly, he nearly snarled in a voice he did not recognize as his own, “What else am I to do?!”

“See _sense_ , and do not allow yourself to be swayed by panic,” retorted Clarus, unflappable as always. He didn’t even offer him the satisfaction of appearing more than mildly exasperated with his behavior, as though he were managing a poorly raised child rather than earning the fury of his king.

And somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, where Regis had thrown all reason in pursuit of the glue to paste together his shattering heart, he knew he deserved it.

Unable to meet his eyes, Regis turned his head away in disgust—whether with himself or his Shield, he could not say— and relinquished his grasp on Clarus. Regardless of his regrettably valid argument, how could he not understand? How could the one person who was closest to him in these darkening days, the one person who he felt he could trust implicitly in all things, hold such a callous view of his predicament?

This was exactly why he had acted in secret, or as much as he could manage under the watchful eye of his nearest and dearest friend. _This_ was the reason he had hoped to depart in haste. Clarus was far more than a mere Shield—he was a rock, a lighthouse, a shelter from the storm that would forever plague Regis’s reign. It would have been optimistic to the point of madness for him to believe that he would ever elicit Clarus’s blessing in his venture. As such, he had anticipated a portion of this reaction, yet his outright disdain for _Regis_ was what sent the latter reeling. For the first time, his Shield was not implying that a plan was ill-advised or a course of action was unwise. No, he was clearly and openly asserting that Regis himself had resorted to negligence in the face of adversity.

It was that more than anything else that deflated the swelling emotion that had been expanding inside his chest, making it increasingly difficult to breathe every moment he spent doing nothing. It was that which broke through the haze of mingled longing and terror that had crept up on him as suddenly as a daemon in the dark. All of his resolve was reduced to naught, leaving him drained and confused and so very far from where he wanted to be by every definition.

“What else am I to do?” he repeated, quietly incredulous. “What alternative would you recommend? If it were Gladiolus…”

“If he were the one in danger, I would consider that my feelings might cloud my judgment,” his Shield immediately answered. Perhaps he knew that Regis was unconvinced, for he remained stoic and detached as he pressed on, “And I would recognize that there are instances in which my presence would be more a liability than an asset.”

Swallowing the twinge of pain those words wrought in every fiber of his being, Regis’s gaze dropped to the floor just before his knees gave way so the rest of him could follow suit. In that instant, like so many over the years, he felt as much like the king of Lucis as the tiny bit of dirt on the rug that he must have tracked in when he claimed to be retiring for the evening. Not for the first time, he thought that speck of filth was less trouble than himself. If nothing else, it had harmed no one; it had sent no soldiers off to endless war or sons into perilous exile. It, unlike him, was a part of Lucis’s very core.

Regis, on the other hand, suddenly wondered if perhaps _he_ was everything wrong with the world.

How useless he was—to his kingdom, his allies, his own child. What good was a king if, with the vast expanse of his authority, he still could not protect the most important thing on the planet?

Regis closed his eyes, his unfamiliar garments making him sweat—or maybe that was merely the byproduct of his shame. It was beyond his ability to watch his Shield lower himself to the floor and kneel beside him, nor could he refrain from turning away when Clarus placed a hand on his shoulder. He simply did not deserve the latter’s sympathy.

He offered it anyway, along with his gentle yet firm reassurance, “The physician was certain. Noctis has suffered no permanent injury or ailment, not even the scourge. It will take time for the wound to close, but it _will_ heal.”

“He should not have suffered it in the first place,” Regis murmured, squeezing his eyes shut tighter. He doubted he looked or sounded like the king he was supposed to be with his slumped shoulders and helpless expression, but he could not find the strength to stand straight and tall. Not now.

“Accidents happen,” Clarus replied, every bit the reasonable Shield he’d always been.

It sounded so simple, yet Regis still retorted, “We prepared for every contingency—accidents should _not_ happen. He never should have been left alone or allowed to leave Hammerhead.”

“All the preparation in the world cannot restrain a willful child,” his Shield chided him wryly. The joke fell flat, however, and he continued more seriously, “Noctis is a force unto himself now. He isn’t the babe who left the Citadel under another’s power, and that agency will mean potential hazards. The best we can do is minimize them wherever possible. The rest…”

He trailed off with a solemn shake of his head, and in days long past, Regis knew what he would have said: _the rest, we leave in the hands of the gods._

They had always been alike in that they hadn’t set much store in the Astrals; what could be done, they would endeavor to accomplish by their own power and with their own hands. Those things that were beyond their capacity, however, was indeed a matter of happy chance—or unhappy, as the case may be.

For the last eight years, neither of them had been willing to risk trusting the gods to aid them. Gentiana was quite plain the night they sent Noctis away: what help the Six _could_ offer had already been provided. The rest was up to them now.

And that was why this felt like such a failure— _his_ failure.

“How am I to remain here and look the other way?” he whispered, clenching his fists in his lap. “How am I to ignore my son when he needs me?”

“By remembering that he does not know you,” was Clarus’s immediate and painfully honest answer.

Regis’s eyes flew open to meet his Shield’s, but the latter showed no indication that he felt more than the tiniest fraction of remorse for his words. Doubtless, he thought that they were necessary; it was not his habit to lie for the sake of Regis’s more delicate sensibilities.

Relentless, Clarus continued, “Sitting at Noctis’s side during his convalescence would be comforting only to _you_. He would not know you, and this is hardly the time for explanations. You would risk injuring him more deeply, perhaps irreparably. You _know_ this.”

He did. That did not lessen the sting of his Shield’s accusation, and under that sympathetic yet judgmental gaze, he felt all his thoughts of an early reunion suddenly diminish until they vanished entirely.

Regis _had_ considered what Clarus was describing—of course he had. What father wouldn’t? In his mind, however, it did not sound so selfish. In the confines of his imagination, Regis had thought perhaps his son would be unaware of his presence, that he could be a silent sentinel standing watch without ever being seen. He had not been lying when he said he was trained just as thoroughly as his Shield, so maintaining a certain level of stealth would be simple work when dealing with a bedridden child.

But Clarus spoke one truth amongst many: Noctis was too old to be manipulated now. The photographs that stared down at him from every surface—walls, furniture, even the desk in his private office—were evidence of that. His little boy was not so little anymore, and neglecting to realize that that would require heightened security over the years was his great mistake. As much as he might endeavor to hide in the shadows and keep watch from a distance, disguised as he was, there was no guarantee that Noctis would not find him. Children had an odd talent for rendering the most reliable plans absolutely worthless.

Regis’s selfish desire to watch over him _would_ bring only pain if Noctis realized he was there. Explanations would be required and old, invisible wounds would be torn open; he had little hope that his son would not hate him for his absence—and rightfully so. In the eyes of an eight-year-old, what sort of father ignored your existence for eight years only to arrive at the worst possible time?

A terrible one.

And thus, the matter was settled. If it weren’t, Regis knew that his Shield would make it so. There would be no leaving the Citadel, at least not for him. Instead he was doomed to a sleepless night, his mind conjuring images of what would have happened had they chosen anyone less capable than Nyx Ulric as Noctis’s faithful protector. Those pictures had already invaded his waking moments, inhabiting the darkness inside his eyelids every time he blinked and staining them a telltale shade of red.

Sleep was not something he was ready to court, nor was he capable of doing _nothing_.

“I cannot sit idly by and wait for news,” he sighed as he ran a hand over his face, “not when this is my doing.”

Clarus came as close to rolling his eyes as he could without completing the motion, dropping his hand and moving to sit on the floor with his back against the bed. “Your determination to shoulder blame for all the suffering in this world will be the death of you, Regis.”

Smiling sadly in spite of himself, he mirrored his Shield’s posture and stared vacantly at the opposite wall when he replied, “Only the suffering I _have_ caused.”

“Last I looked, you spent this evening imitating a chocobo in heat,” Clarus countered lightly, nudging his shoulder, “not spearing your child like a wild garula.”

“Your wit is astounding,” muttered Regis with a jab of his own, this one not quite as playful. His Shield nodded apologetically.

“My point remains. You know as well as I who is to blame for this.”

So many of their conversations brought them back to this line of reasoning that Regis hardly felt the need to remind him, “And who was to blame for invoking his wrath?”

Clarus’s response was equally predictable: “Himself, as it was entirely unfounded.”

Knowing that there was no winning that argument, Regis held his tongue. Whatever he might feel about his own involvement in the tragedies that consistently seemed to befall Eos at the hands of the empire’s mage, there was never any convincing his closest friend that he was at all responsible. And he knew why: what he had done was necessary if he was to protect his people. Ultimately, it was but a game, one that Regis had been destined to lose from the beginning. Had he not acted, it would have meant allowing Ardyn free rein to do as he pleased and destroy countless lives. Had he closed his eyes and pretended nothing was wrong, it would have been a matter of time until he ruled over nothing but daemons and eventually joined their ranks himself. Saving those lives, doing what any monarch should, had a price all its own; its scope was just smaller and admittedly far more personal.

Avoiding negative consequences may have been impossible, but the actions he’d taken to earn them amounted to blood on his hands regardless. Soon, he wondered if he would be able to see the color of his skin through it all.

One thing was certain, however, if only one: his inability to be at Noctis’s side where he belonged was no indication of his position in these dark and dangerous times. If he could not play the role of father just yet, then he would throw himself into the den of wolves that was his duty as king, and may the Six have mercy on him. Really, a little more blood was but a drop in the bucket.

“We must do something, Clarus,” he commented, quiet but insistent. It was not a suggestion—it was an _order_.

His Shield recognized the shift in their conversation without further prompting and automatically swore, “We will organize an effective strategy in conjunction with the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive. There must be some way to contain the threat in the coastal regions until we are able to eliminate it from our shores. If you’ll permit, it may take time to act after considering our options.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Regis waved off his request. When he glanced over to see his Shield’s frown of confusion, he explained, “Fortunately, I already have.”

Clarus blinked, momentarily blindsided by the more rational turn of events than what he’d entered to see—had it only been a few minutes ago? He recovered quickly, though, and mused, “A madman in appearance alone, then.”

Regis looked down at his unassuming shirt with a wince of distaste he could afford himself now that he was resigned to his undesirable distance from Noctis. There was no denying that Clarus had something of a point. If nothing else, it was certainly… _striking_.

Ignoring the smirk he could sense his Shield leveling at him, he rose to his feet with an even and unabashed, “Issue Captain Drautos a summons to the throne room in ten minutes.”

That effectively diverted Clarus’s attention from his attire, and understandably so—it wasn’t often that Regis sought the company of his loyal yet aggravating captain.

“For what purpose?”

“To do precisely as you recommended. You will not allow me my madness, so we must fight fire in kind.”

“An apt description for him,” muttered Clarus, already moving towards the door. He paused on the threshold, however, and turned with a mischievous gleam in his eyes that answered any question of where his son had inherited his personality. “You _do_ intend to don something a bit more… _dignified_ for your audience, correct?”

“Get out, Clarus.”

His Shield departed with a bark of laughter, and the side of him that exhibited a penchant for petty revenge briefly considered meeting with Drautos in his present ensemble purely out of spite. Regrettably, the thought of raised eyebrows and curious whispers dissuaded him, and he arrived in the throne room fifteen minutes later dressed as impeccably as his station demanded. There would be other days for vengeance.

Drautos was already waiting for him, as he’d intended. Regis had learned early on that the best way to approach the captain of the Kingsglaive was in a manner that exuded utmost and unquestionable authority. In some circumstances, that meant being the first to speak on all matters; in others, he would allow the council to lead the discussion and make it quite clear that Drautos was there as an observer, nothing more.

In this instance, his delayed arrival was a reminder that a king was never late regardless of how long his company had to wait for him.

“You have my gratitude for your punctuality at this hour, Captain,” Regis thanked him once he was seated on his throne. Drautos knelt at the bottom of the stairs, his gaze firmly rooted on the floor as he nodded his acknowledgment.

“Simply doing my duty, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed,” he murmured in response. The answer was pleasing if for no other reason than the fact that it gave him a bargaining chip in their impending exchange. Monarch or not, Regis knew that he would be met with a great deal of resistance long before he asserted, “The matter which I have called you here tonight to discuss is of a grave nature. A threat lurks within our borders, preying on our people. It has remained unchecked for far too long.”

Drautos’s shoulders stiffened. “You mean the daemons.”

“I do.”

“It was my understanding that you had people looking into it.”

Raising an eyebrow, Regis confirmed, “I have. Their sources of reliable information are few and their conclusions fewer. At this juncture, it is impossible to say how the daemons are entering our lands when their origins are as yet undetermined.”

Well, not _entirely_ undetermined. It went without saying that Ardyn was the culprit, just as he had been nearly twenty years ago. Still, knowing the source changed nothing: two decades had passed, but they were just as ignorant of how he had conjured the daemons now as when they stood in Pitioss, staring at their carcasses. Appointing Lucis’s most knowledgeable and talented scientists to the task of explaining the phenomenon was the best he could do, not that he harbored much hope that they would ever be completely successful. Ardyn was a mage, and the daemons were no man-made occurrence; whatever they were and wherever they were coming from, it was highly unlikely that humans were capable of fathoming their true nature.

Until tonight, it had been enough that they were trying. It had been enough that outposts and cities had installed lights that would repel the daemons in the dead of night when they were most prone to attack. It had been enough that the hunters courageously stepped forward to keep the land beyond Insomnia’s borders safe.

After tonight, it was no longer enough. In the throes of his panic, in the heat of his terror, Regis had understood that much.

For that reason, he sat tall and commanding on his throne as he surveyed Drautos below and ordered, “It is now a task for the Kingsglaive.”

A second passed in which the argument he had anticipated did not come. There was no point in deluding himself into believing that it wouldn’t, however, and he shored up his resolve in preparation for the moment when Drautos fully processed his words.

It took longer than expected.

“You can’t be serious,” he blurted out, his head snapping up to stare at Regis directly. He appeared to realize his misstep and tacked on a brisk, “Your Majesty,” as an afterthought.

Unaffected, Regis inquired, “Do you truly believe me capable of jesting about the safety of our people?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you will remember that I indicated this is a grave matter, one that we should have taken action against long ago.”

“You can’t just _take action_ against daemons, Your Majesty,” contended Drautos with an incredulous expression. “For every one you kill, there are dozens more just waiting to jump out at you.”

“You suggest that innocent lives are less important than avoiding a difficult endeavor?”

“I suggest that there are already other people perfectly capable of keeping the daemons at bay without getting my men involved.”

“The hunters are overwhelmed with the growing numbers, particularly in the Cleigne region,” Clarus interjected from where he’d been sitting in the gallery to Regis’s left. “We have already deployed members of the Crownsguard to bolster their numbers in the past. It is not enough.”

“Then send more,” Drautos recommended, his tone bordering on harsh. “Deploying the Kingsglaive would cause a conflict in the chain of command. If the Crownsguard is already in place, then I’d think Marshal Leonis wouldn’t want anyone stepping on his toes.”

That would have been a valid argument if Cor was even remotely similar to Drautos—a truly laughable notion.

“A difference in title is hardly relevant when both organizations share the same goal,” he subtly reprimanded the captain, who seemed to be doing his best not to see it as such. No, apparently he preferred to argue semantics.

“The Kingsglaive is meant to protect the _king_.”

“The Kingsglaive is meant to protect the _kingdom_ ,” Regis contradicted him, sparing no thought for Drautos’s pride this time. “I was under the impression that your men were the most skillful, elite warriors in my employ. If that is not the case, then I would prefer to find a captain who can assure me that his Glaives are prepared for whatever task I should deem necessary, including this one.”

Unsurprisingly, the captain persisted, “They _are_ the best, Your Majesty, but what you want makes that meaningless. It’s a suicide mission. You’re asking them to die fighting an enemy there is no defeating.”

“Is that not what they pledged when they joined your ranks?”

Drautos’s mouth snapped shut in perhaps the most intelligent step he’d taken yet. Only a fool would be blind to the fact that Regis had cornered him with his own words; to argue further would mean admitting disloyalty, even treason, against the kingdom and its sovereign. Every now and again, his captain needed to be reminded of that.

So, his gaze piercing and cold, Regis continued, “Each member of the Kingsglaive swore an oath to the throne and the people of this kingdom that they would lay down their lives in its protection. They pledged that Lucis would forever take precedence over their own comfort and security, so that they might build a brighter future for us all. _You_ took this solemn vow, _Captain_. Do you deny it?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Drautos muttered, bowing his head.

“Would your men deny it if I were to ask them?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

Regis stood, pacing slowly towards the edge of the dais to glare down at Drautos’s prostrated form. “Whom do you serve, Captain?”

A beat, then, “I serve Your Majesty.”

“And at whose pleasure?”

“Your Majesty’s pleasure.”

Nodding, Regis let the frustration and fear and helplessness that had threatened to consume him earlier bubble up to the surface again. He allowed those emotions to grip him tightly so that he could see Drautos in exactly the way he deserved: one man standing in the way of Regis’s son’s safety, whether he knew it or not.

 _No one_ would put Noctis in danger. Not while Regis still drew breath.

“You have your orders,” he announced, his tone simultaneously brooking no argument and daring his captain to do so. When he received no response, he elaborated, “You will coordinate your resources with those of the Crownsguard. I want the Kingsglaive to maintain an active presence throughout Lucis. Contain the daemons in less populated regions, preferably as close to the coast as possible until we are able to determine a more permanent solution.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” acknowledged Drautos. He was a blur of motion, rising and bowing and heading towards the door with the haste of a man who might say something he would regret if he didn’t.

Well, Regis would have been remiss to allow the opportunity to go to waste, wouldn’t he?

“And Captain.” He waited for Drautos to pause at the end of the chamber before he concluded, “Should you fail to recognize the purpose of your division in the future, you may discover that your service is no longer to my pleasure.”

Wisely, the captain offered no response. Instead he pushed forcefully through the exit before the guards could grant him passage, the doors swinging shut behind him.

Without no further need to maintain appearances for an audience, Regis sighed and collapsed back on his throne, laying a hand over his face. Could nothing be simple with that man?

“I do not understand why you continue to tolerate his presence,” grumbled Clarus in that way he always had of sensing Regis’s thoughts. The latter chuckled humorlessly.

“Perhaps it is because I understand how difficult it is to appoint adequate leadership.”

“I daresay you would find numerous candidates both more qualified and of better temperament than Drautos.”

Humming noncommittally, Regis chose not to answer. Maybe it _was_ increasingly foolish of him the longer he spent listening to his captain’s insubordination, but he chose to believe that his loyalty and competent service were worth the irritation. For all he knew, he might hire someone else for the position, turn Drautos out, and then realize that his choice was inferior. If he were operating a business, that would not be much of a hardship; when his missteps might cost lives or even the kingdom at large, there was no room for error. Drautos was not likable—Regis couldn’t argue otherwise. Regardless, he was skilled and able, and he had almost single-handedly polished the Kingsglaive into the success that it had become over the years. It would be both ungrateful and inadvisable to change chocobos in the middle of a stream, as it were.

As long as Drautos followed orders, there was no reason to relieve him of his duties. He was too valuable and knew enough secrets about Lucis to be dangerous should his dismissal drive him into the hands of the empire. Regis had learned that lesson in the most painful way before—he was not willing to make the same mistake a second time.

Clarus already knew and respected his stance on the matter despite his habit of occasionally voicing his opposing opinion, so Regis didn’t waste his breath with further justifications. Admittedly, that was one of the perquisites of being king: his word was literally law. He rarely invoked that privilege, especially with those he considered friends, but it was there if he ever needed it.

And with Drautos leading the charge, he undoubtedly would.

For now, however, he put the ill-tempered captain out of his mind and turned his attention to another matter that had presented itself to him over the last few dreadful hours. Having hopefully provided for his son’s safety alongside that of his people, his comfort shifted to the forefront of Regis’s thoughts.

“I am afraid I must ask one more favor of you tonight, my friend,” he began, lowering his hand from his face to meet his Shield’s gaze. Clarus had every right to be weary of his constant stream of needs this evening, yet his expression was that of a dutiful companion rather than an aggrieved subordinate. Regis could not help distantly reflecting on how fortunate he was in his connections.

Nodding, his Shield rose from his seat with an earnest, “Whatever you require.”

_If only it were that simple._

“Bring Cor to me,” he requested with a grateful smile, “along with Ignis and Gladiolus. Wake them if necessary.”

If it gave Clarus pause to disturb the boys in what were now the early hours of the morning, he showed no signs of it. Instead he readily agreed and hastened out of the throne room, leaving Regis alone with his thoughts. They weren’t as dark as they had been before, when every shadow seemed to reach towards him in a grotesque reminder of what had happened to Noctis that night, but what might have been still weighed heavily on his mind. The only thing more harrowing was the understanding that, in spite of Clarus’s repeated attempts at convincing him otherwise, it was chiefly his own fault.

His musings were interrupted a short while later when his Shield returned with the marshal and two bleary-eyed children who had not been given the opportunity to change out of their pajamas yet. At another time, perhaps in another life, the sight would have made him smile.

Tonight, he merely wondered how many young lives he would irrevocably destroy.

 

***

 

 _“Ah, Noctis._ There _you are.”_

Noctis started awake, shooting upright in bed. Something was here—in the shadows, in his dreams, _somewhere_ —and it was waiting to reach out and grab him. He didn’t know how, but he just _knew_ it!

Clutching his blanket, he yanked it up to his chin and glared frantically into every nook and cranny. Whoever or whatever it was, it would have to get at him through his covers. He was fully prepared to dive beneath them at the slightest movement, knowing that Uncle Cid would come running if he heard a commotion. He was a light sleeper, after all; on more than one occasion, he’d burst into the room to check on Noctis, thinking he’d heard an intruder when it was just Carbuncle falling off the bed. There was no possible way that he’d miss it if someone had snuck inside.

As time ticked by, though, he came to the conclusion that he was either dealing with a champion hide-and-seek player or he truly _was_ alone. Not a sound disturbed the peace; the apartment was quiet on the other side of the door. He couldn’t even discern any noise outside his window, which was pretty strange when there were always cars rolling into Hammerhead for fuel. Long minutes passed that felt like an eternity, until he eventually had to admit that there was nothing stalking him from the shadows—it wasn’t like his room was full of places to hide. He’d probably been dreaming. Yeah, that would make sense: it was all just a bad dream that had woken him up before he was ready, so he was jumping at figments of his imagination like a little kid. Everything was normal—everything was _fine_.

Despite that comforting thought beginning to sink into his consciousness, he simply couldn’t get himself under control. It was like the time he’d run through the garage and accidentally plowed straight into the corner of his uncle’s workbench: all the air seemed to have been punched right out of his chest, and he was so disoriented that he barely recognized his own room beyond the vague knowledge that that was where he was.

As the dregs of sleep and fear faded away, Noctis glanced around in search of anything that might distract him from his heaving chest and residual thoughts of monsters lying in wait. The more he tried to find something to focus on, however, the more certain he became that this wasn’t right. There was no obvious abnormality, and nothing was out of place—his furniture was where it always had been, his pocket watch was hanging in the same spot on the wall, and the toy cars he’d been playing with earlier were shoved into the corner of the room so he wouldn’t step on them. (Or, more importantly, so that Uncle Cid wouldn’t. They’d had that problem before, and it wasn’t something he wanted to repeat.) Everything _looked_ normal enough, yet there was something off about it all, as if it wasn’t quite _real_. He couldn’t begin to describe why and knew he was being silly, but… It was still _wrong_.

And that wasn’t the only thing. Habit had him blindly hunting beneath the covers for Carbuncle with one hand, seeking whatever comfort his best friend could offer him. He seldom had nightmares—in fact, this was the first in a long time—but Carbuncle was always there to calm him down and remind him that everything was going to be okay. Noctis was positive that was all he needed right now: the reassurances that only his oldest friend could provide.

So, the situation grew exponentially worse when he came up empty again and again.

At first, he thought that maybe Carbuncle had just fallen off the bed. That happened a lot, which never failed to make Noctis feel guilty as he swept aside the dust bunnies and hugged the pain away. When he leaned over the edge of his mattress, however, his best friend was nowhere to be found. He even hopped out of bed (the floor wasn’t cold for a change) and crouched down to peek underneath—nothing.

“Carbuncle?!”

Scrambling to his feet, Noctis scanned the room in a futile attempt to convince himself that his friend was still there. He didn’t remember taking him anywhere else—he didn’t remember going to bed, come to think of it, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on that. There was no sign of blue fur in his bedroom, so maybe he’d fallen asleep on the couch and Uncle Cid had tucked him in; he usually remembered Carbuncle, but perhaps he and Cindy just hadn’t been paying attention. Noctis would run down the hall and his friend would be on the floor or something, waiting to regale him with how offended he was that Noctis’s uncle had left him behind. That had to be it.

Latching on to that desperate hope, he darted towards the door without thinking about how loud his footsteps were in the silence. He didn’t want to wake Uncle Cid, but surely he’d understand when Noctis told him that Carbuncle was missing.

That was what he assumed, anyway. He never found out, because when he yanked on the door handle, it didn’t budge.

Frowning, Noctis tried again, but he couldn’t even turn the knob. It remained resolutely still beneath his fingers, like the fake ones on the kitchen cabinets that _looked_ like they rotated but were actually just for decoration. Using both hands didn’t change a thing, nor did tugging as hard as he could. At one point, he even threw all of his weight backwards with the expectation that the door would magically realize he wanted out and humor him—apparently, it didn’t care either way. When he looked up from where he’d landed painfully on the floor, it was still closed with a lazy sort of indifference to his plight.

All of a sudden, his chest started getting that heavy feeling again.

“Uncle Cid!” he shouted, launching himself at his foe and banging on it with his fists. “Uncle Cid, the door won’t open!”

“He’s not out there.”

To say that Noctis jumped out of his skin wasn’t much of an exaggeration. His feet left the floor altogether, threatening to send him toppling over when he landed unsteadily and whirled around to see that he was _right_ —he _wasn’t_ alone—it was—

“C-Carbuncle?” he whispered, eyes wide as he stared at the familiar creature watching him a few feet away.

“That’s me!” the little white fox squeaked out in the same high-pitched voice as his best friend.

Noctis tried to nod or move or _something_ , but all he could manage was closing his mouth instead of continuing to gape at his unexpected companion. This couldn’t be real. The locked door, Uncle Cid not being here in the middle of the night, this _animal_ talking to him just like anyone else—none of it made sense, especially not that last one. Carbuncle was _blue_ , not white, and he didn’t cock his head to the side when he was waiting for Noctis to speak. He also didn’t move on his own, but the creature currently sharing his room twitched its tail idly against the floor as if it were getting bored with just staring at each other. Nope, no way was this real. He had to be dreaming—that would explain everything.

If this _was_ all in his head, though, then that meant…

“Are you the _real_ Carbuncle?” Noctis asked in a small voice, almost afraid of the answer. The Dream Guardian was supposed to protect against nightmares, according to Ignis, not keep him trapped in one where he couldn’t get out of his room.

The fox didn’t appear to realize how discomfiting Noctis’s train of thought had become, because it nodded its red-horned head serenely and replied, “Yup! You called my name, so here I am.”

He opened his mouth to argue that he’d done so such thing when he remembered that _technically_ he had. Of course, he’d been thinking about his own Carbuncle, the one who was his best friend and not almost a god. If he’d summoned the latter instead, then there really wasn’t any denying that…

“I’m dreaming.”

Carbuncle nodded again. “That’s right.”

“And…” Noctis trailed off, turning to glare at the door that still stood between him and what he supposed would be the rest of the apartment even in his head. “W-What about Uncle Cid? And Cindy?”

“They’re not here,” he repeated matter-of-factly. “They’re in the real world waiting for you to wake up.”

Noctis wordlessly shook his head with a puzzled frown. That didn’t sound like them at all. Uncle Cid never let him sleep too late unless he was super tired or really sick; he should have come in or sent Cindy to get him at some point. So, why was he still asleep if they were waiting for him?

When he didn’t answer, Carbuncle made a soft noise almost like a purr and asked, “Do you remember what happened?”

“What…happened?”

“Think back to the last thing you remember. You can do it!”

Well, that was easy for _him_ to say. Noctis had no clue what he was even talking about, so he hardly knew where to start. The last thing he remembered? That was waking up in his room—or, not really waking up, apparently. If he was still dreaming, then he hadn’t been asleep _here_ to begin with. That was confusing enough without examining it too closely, so he decided not to wander down that road. If everything that had happened since he’d gotten out of bed was a dream, then he figured Carbuncle wanted him to remember what occurred before that.

The only problem was that he was drawing a blank. It felt like _nothing_ came before he _sort-of-woke-up-but-not-really_. His memory wasn’t gone—there was plenty there—but he couldn’t visualize going to sleep. He didn’t think it had been a school day, so Crowe wouldn’t have read him a bedtime story; it hadn’t been one of the special Fridays of the month where Ignis and Gladio were there, so he didn’t have _that_ to draw from.

What _had_ happened?

Before he went to sleep… Before he started dreaming…

He remembered a voice. Kind of. It wasn’t familiar, but there was another that was. _Who…?_

Nyx! He remembered Nyx. And that was weird in itself, because Nyx hadn’t been working that day, had he? Noctis wasn’t supposed to see him again until tomorrow—Saturday—when he had his shift at the diner. Uncle Cid would have woken him up and sent him to Takka’s to get breakfast—

 _Takka’s_. Dinner.

The frog.

The spy.

Bits and pieces were coming back to him until a floodgate seemed to lift, barraging him with images that he didn’t _want_ to see even in his memories: running after the frog, losing sight of home, the sun going down…

Catching up with his quarry only to watch it get speared by a sword that shot up out of the ground without warning. Feeling frozen in place with shocked, frightened eyes as a man appeared the same way. Grabbing a stick to defend himself like Gladio taught him.

Failing.

Falling.

 _Pain_.

A light pressure at the side of his ankle tore his mind away from the recollections that seemed to trap him just as thoroughly as the man with the sword had. When he glanced down, it was to find Carbuncle leaning his head against Noctis’s leg and staring up at him sympathetically. It felt like he was hearing his voice through a tunnel when he finally intoned, “The spy got me.”

His companion nodded, nuzzling his ankle one last time before scurrying away and hopping up onto his bed. “It did, but it wasn’t just any old spy.”

It honestly never occurred to Noctis that spies could be considered _any old_ …well, anything. His curiosity getting the better of him, he shuffled over to sit beside Carbuncle and instinctively pulled his legs up to hug his knees. In this strange dream, he didn’t have his best friend to cuddle with, and he doubted that the Dream Guardian would feel much like snuggling with a kid. He probably had a lot of other people he needed to help tonight, whereas his own Carbuncle’s sole priority was Noctis. He already knew which he preferred.

 _This_ Carbuncle had answers, though, and Noctis didn’t mind putting the disturbing events that had landed him here out of his mind for a while. “It wasn’t?”

“Nope,” the Dream Guardian replied, unfazed by the idea. “That one was a daemon.”

Frowning, Noctis echoed, “A daemon?”

“Right.”

“What’s that?”

“They’re a kind of monster that only comes out when it’s dark.”

Although he’d never heard of them before, Carbuncle’s explanation struck a familiar chord, and Noctis thought back to the day he’d overheard Uncle Cid talking to Cor about spies that never came near Hammerhead. The way it had sounded then, he’d just assumed that they didn’t want to be recognized by anyone at the outpost who might report them to the police. Now, though…

“What happens to them when it’s light out?” he wondered slowly. Carbuncle shifted his head from side to side in what Noctis interpreted as a shrug.

“They disappear.”

 _…What?_!

“Just…gone?”

“Yup. Daemons can’t come out if there’s too much light. That’s why you haven’t seen them before,” he added in answer to Noctis’s unspoken question.

His tone was reassuring in an empty sort of way. Carbuncle probably thought he was comforting him or making him feel safer—if things were different, maybe he would have been right. Instead, Noctis pressed his forehead to his knees so that he could hide his humiliation.

This was all his fault. Everything that had happened and whatever was going on now was because of him. Noctis still didn’t remember everything; there was a point where all he knew was that the world went dark and nothing seemed to exist. The rest was a mystery, but it wasn’t difficult to guess how things had played out. If he hadn’t followed that frog—if he’d just left it alone and done what he was supposed to do—then he wouldn’t be here. He’d be at home with his family. He’d have _his_ Carbuncle rather than this one, who was admittedly cool but ultimately _not his_. Instead, it sounded like Uncle Cid and Cindy and maybe even Nyx were all worried because he was too stupid to just _do what he was supposed to do_.

He’d let them down. He’d let them _all_ down.

And he deserved whatever he got for that.

“Don’t blame yourself, Noct!”

Raising his head just enough to stare up at Carbuncle, who had moved much closer when he wasn’t looking, Noctis blinked back the tears that had been welling up in his eyes as he reflected on everything he’d done wrong. How could he _not_ blame himself? That was what he wanted to ask—demand, really—but the words couldn’t fit around the lump that had become lodged in his throat. The Dream Guardian didn’t need him to say them aloud, though. Whether it was just that obvious on his face or if there was some strange magic at work, neither of which would have surprised him at this point, Carbuncle seemed to know exactly what he was thinking and feeling.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” the Dream Guardian reassured him, nudging his arms out of the way so that he could lean his paws against Noctis’s knees. The latter sniffled and shook his head.

“I shouldn’t’ve gone.”

“No,” admitted Carbuncle, “but you were just trying to do the right thing. That was really brave of you!”

“B-But…” Noctis’s voice cracked, and he had to stop to compose himself for a moment before he was able to speak again. Carbuncle was patient with him, just like his best friend. “I couldn’t save the frog.”

“But you tried! That’s what really matters.”

It took a lot of effort for Noctis not to roll his eyes, but the exhaustion that was beginning to seep into his muscles helped. Grown-ups said stuff like that all the time, about how the important thing was always trying your best even if you failed. Wasn’t that why they called it _failing_ , though? Because you did something wrong? For all he knew, the frog would have been okay if Noctis hadn’t been out there with it; maybe the daemon would have left it alone and it eventually would have found water or even Sania’s lab. Yeah, he’d _tried_ , but he couldn’t help thinking that he’d only made things worse.

Carbuncle was determined not to let him contemplate it too much, though, or so it appeared. Noctis hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a soft red glow emanating from the Dream Guardian’s horn that seemed to grow brighter with his weariness. So great was the sudden desire to just close his eyes and _sleep_ that resistance didn’t cross his mind as his best friend’s doppelganger prodded him to lie down.

“You should rest,” he squeaked softly, grabbing Noctis’s blanket in his mouth and tugging it over him. “The sooner you do, the sooner you can go home. Everyone’s waiting for you!”

“Uncle Cid’s gonna be so mad,” whispered Noctis around a yawn. His eyes slid shut without his permission, and every attempt to pry them open was so useless that he gave up almost immediately. The mattress shifted beside him until a furry little body curled up beneath his arm and a cold nose poked the underside of his chin.

“He’ll just be happy you’re okay. You’ll see!”

It was hard to summon the energy to refute the Dream Guardian’s logic when he was warm and sleepy and drifting further away by the second. Instead, Noctis tightened his arms around this surrogate Carbuncle and let the darkness take him. As much as he wanted to dive into his uncle’s tightest hug and beg him not to be upset, he was willing to let whatever was waiting for him when he woke up wait a little longer.


	13. Lifelines

The most common definition of _frustration_ was the feeling of being upset or annoyed as a result of being unable to change or achieve something. It came in many forms and intensities, generally dependent on the person and situation. Some individuals were of a sensitive variety, where the slightest inconvenience was enough to set them on edge; others were more difficult to shake and therefore experienced frustration only on occasions that entailed a greater degree of anxiety, with seemingly earth-shattering results.

Ignis was beginning to realize he fell into the latter category.

He didn’t think anyone would blame him, though. These three weeks had been the most stressful of any in his ten years, which was saying a lot when he literally spent every waking moment of his existence learning how best to serve the future king of Lucis. That wasn’t even counting all the time he put into maintaining a friendship with said heir through lies and deceit. The secrets he kept were necessary, as he had always known, but that didn’t ease his guilt. What would happen when they were older and Noctis discovered that they weren’t who they had claimed? It would no doubt hurt him to realize the extent of the falsehoods that surrounded him—Ignis could predict that much. Sadly, it didn’t make the situation any less unavoidable. The prince was a kind-hearted, understanding person; all any of them could do was hope that he remained so when that day finally came.

Not once since they’d first visited Hammerhead had Ignis considered that that day _wouldn’t_ come—not until three weeks ago, when Master Clarus had woken both him and Gladio in the middle of the night and brought them to King Regis. Although Ignis spent little time in the king’s company, as his place was at Noctis’s side rather than his father’s, the image of their monarch on his throne would forever be seared into his memory. Whatever drowsiness he’d still felt had fled as soon as they entered to find King Regis staring down at them with the saddest smile Ignis had ever seen. Perhaps he was trying to be strong for their sake the way adults had a tendency of believing they must, but it did not hide how his eyes looked too red and his fingers were trembling.

To say that Ignis expected the worst sort of news that night was an understatement. He had not been wrong.

It wasn’t until they’d stepped out of the car in Leide just before dawn and ascended the steps to Cid’s apartment that Ignis realized the situation was far worse than the king had communicated both verbally and through his stilted gestures. There were no diplomats in Hammerhead, no talented and well-trained spies whose very survival depended on their ability to present one front to the public while shielding their emotions from view. There was only grief and silence.

For as drawn and upset as King Regis had appeared before they left, Cid more than matched him. When he’d emerged from the rear bedroom to see them standing there, his welcoming grin was conspicuously absent and his shoulders were slumped in something like defeat. Ignis and Gladio had stood off to the side, watching with mingled confusion and fear as Cor stepped forward to speak with him in hushed tones. It was difficult to discern anything they were saying, although the gradual downturn of the marshal’s lips had spoken volumes of what they could not hear otherwise. By the time they had been summoned forward into what Ignis knew to be Cid’s bedroom, not Noctis’s, he felt as though he might burst at the seams in anticipation of he knew not what.

Laying eyes upon their friend did _not_ help matters. All the king had told them was that Noctis was attacked by a daemon; any other information was either classified or irrelevant. That or he simply deemed it unnecessary to upset them further when they would already be dealing with such a fragile situation—which was certainly putting it mildly.

The weariness that had tugged at Ignis’s consciousness in the car had vanished instantly when he saw Noctis lying face down on the bed, shirt removed and a sheet pulled up to his waist. Heavy bandages had been and still were wrapped along the length of his torso, covering every inch of his skin until it seemed like the prince’s natural paleness had lightened to a stark and clinical white. For all he knew, that was precisely the case: he’d ignored the superfluous warnings Cid muttered behind him to tiptoe around the corner of the bed and observe the way Noctis’s face seemed drained of all color as well. Through Carbuncle’s blue fur, Ignis could see dark circles around the prince’s eyes and little veins that should have been invisible; it had taken a little longer for him to notice the metal stand beside the bed with two hanging bags connected by thin tubes to Noctis’s arms—one clear, and one a very telling shade of red.

That was the point where he’d glanced up at Gladio, who was still standing by the door with wide eyes and an inscrutable expression. Their gazes had met, both of them realizing the same thing simultaneously: this was _bad_ —worse than they’d been told. Neither of them knew much, but they’d been given basic training in first aid before they were allowed to accompany Cor to Hammerhead the first time. He’d understood the necessity then, even if he had insisted to Gladio that the likelihood of needing those skills was still relatively low when Noctis was so young. What could a five-year-old possibly do that would require them to save his life, after all?

How silly he’d been, or maybe just optimistic. Noctis wasn’t five anymore, but this shouldn’t have happened regardless.

Despite his curiosity, Ignis hadn’t inquired about what happened. He hadn’t demanded more of Cid than the strain he was already under, nor did he imagine it was his right to do so. Instead, he’d slowly and carefully climbed onto the bed to sit beside his friend, where he silently vowed to stay for the foreseeable future. It was from there that he’d noticed that Noctis’s undercover Kingsglaive guardian was slumped in the corner of the room, fast asleep wearing bloodstained clothes; it was from there that he realized Cindy was hovering by the window like she had no idea what she was doing—an unprecedented turn of events.

What happened after that didn’t matter, not that he remembered most of it anyway. The world had moved around him almost without his conscious input—Cor and Cid coming and going and speaking all the while, Gladio approaching to sit on the floor beside the mattress, Cindy vanishing to her room with the door firmly shut behind her. Nyx must have departed at some point, because he returned when the bright light of morning streamed through the window in a fresh outfit and carrying pancakes none of them could do more than stare at. They even had chocolate chips in them, Noctis’s preference, as though the prince might smell them and fight through the haze of drugs being pumped into his tiny body to sample a few.

He didn’t, nor did they eat them without him. Every time Ignis had tried, the food felt and tasted like cardboard; swallowing was a chore, and more often than not, he’d only managed it if he gulped water to wash it down. After a couple of days, Nyx stopped trying to bring things that were meant to make them feel better and focused instead on the necessities: basic, bland meals to match the somber mood in the apartment.

Cid didn’t open the garage for almost a week, putting it off until Cor insisted that it would be good for him to get back to work; he’d mentioned that it would help to establish a routine and attempt to make things as normal as possible for the rest of them. Ignis never would have known that was the case if it weren’t for a momentary weakness that had him leaving Noctis’s side to use the bathroom, but it struck him as an odd sentiment nevertheless. He and Gladio had been camping out in Cid’s room with the prince since their arrival and did not expect to leave anytime soon, as it was the king’s request that they remain in Hammerhead to comfort Noctis until he was back on his feet, both literally and figuratively. There was little use for them when Noctis slept for days on end, but they had stuck by him regardless. That must have lent some credence to Cor’s argument, and although it was accompanied by a great deal of grousing, Cid returned to his vocation with Cindy immediately following his lead.

As for Ignis and Gladio… Well, there wasn’t a great deal that they could do those first few days. Cor and Master Clarus had packed a bag for each of them before they had left the Citadel, so there were plenty of books to be read and assignments to be completed. Even Gladio, whose training consisted primarily of physical exploits, had enough work to keep him busy for some time. That did not mean that he felt inclined to do it, however, and he instead spent most of his time pacing the length of the bedroom and occupying on the floor beside Noctis’s bed in equal measures.

Ignis thought he understood what his friend was going through. They had both been raised with the knowledge that Noctis was their responsibility, their future, the literal center of their universe—and that was _before_ they’d met and become friends with him. There was nothing more agonizing than sitting in silence, unable to act yet even more unwilling to leave. They were where they were meant to be with absolutely nothing they could do to make things right. Given the varying natures of their positions, Ignis was far better suited to stillness, although he would be lying if he said that what he read registered completely. He was constantly interrupted by Gladio’s huffs of irritation or the sound of his stomping footsteps against the floor; when he wasn’t impersonating an angry behemoth, Ignis’s own desire to check on Noctis was a frequent distraction. With no other way to assist, the least he could do was monitor the prince’s condition in case there was any unlikely change.

There wasn’t. Ignis couldn’t decide whether he should be contented or disappointed by that.

On the fifth day, the king’s physician replaced the intravenous solutions that had been keeping Noctis asleep with painkillers, instructing Cid to provide one pill every six hours. Of course, he wouldn’t be up and around just yet; the severity of his injury required more time to heal, and its location meant that placing too much weight on his spine too soon would set back Noctis’s recovery. Still, it seemed like a turning point, and Ignis had been unable to focus on his reading that night as he brainstormed ideas of what they could do while the prince was stuck inside. Crowe had placed their lessons on hold until Noctis was in better condition, so they could always read or practice some of his math skills…

It hadn’t occurred to him that the turning point might take them in an undesirable direction. In hindsight, it had been foolish of him _not_ to consider that as a viable option. His instructors always said that to make assumptions without proper evidence was tantamount to idiocy, yet he did so anyway. He’d forgotten every single lesson he’d learned and allowed himself to believe that everything would be all right purely because he wished it. In his mind, Noctis would wake up, perhaps feel a bit embarrassed about having worried them all, and slowly get better. There was simply no other possibility, or at least none that he could begin to entertain. It was stupid of him—it was _childish_ , and if there was one thing he’d been taught never to abide, it was childishness. Yes, he was aware that he _was_ still young and that such stringent controls on his thoughts would not be expected of Noctis or even Gladio, but that changed nothing. He wasn’t supposed to let himself get carried away; he should always be thinking about what a grown-up would do, how they would respond to a situation.

Instead, nothing had been able to penetrate the thick bubble of hope that surrounded him when the mattress had shifted ever so slightly and he looked down to see the blue of Noctis’s eyes for the first time in over a month. They were only open a slit, just enough for their color to peek through, but it was a blessing nonetheless. All that could dampen his mood in that moment was the fact that Noctis wasn’t _really_ awake yet. The physician had indicated that it would _take a few tries_ before the sedatives were out of his system, and Ignis immediately realized what he meant as he watched Noctis blink slowly without appearing to _see_ him. A second later, he was gone again.

The cycle continued well into the night until Ignis eventually set aside his book—pretending to concentrate was more irritating than distracting. Whenever Noctis stirred, he went through the aggravating process of wondering whether he should wake Cor or Cid where they had been sleeping on the couch and in Noctis’s room respectively. He didn’t want to get their hopes up, though, and resolved to wait until Noctis had made the long journey back to the land of the living.

It was a lonely wait, especially since Gladio had long since fallen asleep at his usual perch beside the bed. There was a certain satisfaction in it as well, though: he would be there when Noctis woke up for real. It was _his_ face that Noctis would see, maybe even speak to when he was able. It would be just one more step towards who he was meant to become in the years that lay ahead of them, as Noctis’s advisor and friend alike.

So, it was discouraging when Noctis _finally_ regained some semblance of consciousness only to flinch away the moment Ignis had moved closer.

_It’s not you_ , he’d reminded himself firmly over the resounding _crash_ that seemed to echo in his ears and heart. _He’s been through an ordeal. He needs time._

It didn’t quite ease the sting of watching Noctis squirm away from him, his eyes wide with incomprehensible terror. All he could do was wait, however, wanting to help but knowing that he was likely to frighten the prince _more_ if he acted too quickly.

_Sheer torture_ was the only way he could describe having to observe Noctis as the latter desperately attempted to make sense of what he was seeing. According to the bits and pieces Ignis had gleaned from the conversations he’d overheard between Cid and Cor, that was unsurprising: it would probably be jarring to find himself in his adoptive uncle’s room instead of out in the dirt somewhere, or even in his own bed.

The part of Ignis that Gladio called an _annoying mom_ (which he took some offense to despite the bolstering sentiment behind it) had wanted to explain right away, to tell him what had happened in the simple terms the king had used when he’d enlightened them. Then he’d remembered one of the most important lessons his instructors had ever taught him—that it was imperative he let the prince find things out for himself, especially when he was king—and retreated. If his sole recourse was to provide silent support as Noctis’s eyes darted groggily around the room, so be it.

He’d figured everything out within minutes, which wasn’t unexpected considering who Ignis was dealing with. Noctis was sharper than anyone he knew (except himself, of course), and even addled by medication, he was quick to realize where he was and who was with him. Ignis had watched with quiet impatience as his arm dragged Carbuncle closer into his embrace, revealing Gladio’s head where he’d leaned it up against the side of the mattress. A little crease had appeared in the middle of Noctis’s eyebrows before his eyes gradually tracked over to where Ignis was leaned slightly over him in his anticipation.

The relief that had filled Noctis’s face was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

Then he’d tried to roll over before Ignis could remember to stop him, cried out in agony, and the world became a much darker place.

In the intervening weeks, it hadn’t gotten any better. Ignis wished that he could say Noctis had slept more, taken his pain medication, and woken up refreshed and ready to be the bundle of energy he always was when they visited.

That didn’t happen.

Rather, Ignis learned the difficult lesson that the drugs King Regis’s physician had prescribed, while made with the best intentions, were both a blessing and a torment.

The second week of their stay in Hammerhead, it was as though they were caring for a newborn—even Cid remarked something to that effect. They’d been warned that the medication was strong, but Ignis had assumed that meant it would merely ease any pain Noctis might be feeling, regardless of its severity. Instead, it transformed him into a person Ignis hardly recognized. Where the prince had always enjoyed napping when he could get away with it, moments where he was awake were increasingly rare under the influence of the physician’s treatment. On the odd occasion when he didn’t fall asleep within minutes of ingesting it, Noctis would mumble nonsense and fuss restlessly with Carbuncle until he did. If they were very fortunate, he would have a few minutes of clarity before he descended into the drug-induced madness that had become the norm, but it wasn’t what Ignis would call a gift. Noctis spent that time in excruciating pain, unable to move lest his stitches pull and reduce him to tears.

With his near constant state of unconsciousness, it was all but impossible to see to Noctis’s other needs the way they normally would. When he had to relieve himself, someone was required to carry him; when his stomach reminded them that he was hungry despite his obvious lack of appetite, Cid would sit in bed and spoon-feed him soup from Takka’s with Noctis propped limply against his chest. Ignis and Gladio had spent hours at a time hunting down as many blankets as they could find both in the apartment and around the outpost so they could bundle the prince inside where he wouldn’t catch one of the chills he seemed more prone to now than ever.

In a way, it was almost worse than the first week. The uncertainty was gone, which Ignis had been glad for, but in its wake was a pervasive sadness at seeing his friend so very unlike himself. For a time, at least, he was able to blame it on the medication. Gladio was partially responsible for that: whenever Ignis would so much as frown in Noctis’s general direction, the future Shield would remind him that the physician claimed all this was normal. He’d say Noctis would get better. He’d reassure him that things would go back to the way they used to be.

He’d uttered a lot of kind platitudes, and _continued_ to do so even when Ignis impatiently scoffed that he _knew_ and didn’t need to be treated like a child. It wasn’t until Cor had pulled him aside later, after Gladio had stomped off in a towering temper, that he recognized it wasn’t _him_ the latter had been trying to reassure. Well, it _was_ , but not entirely. As Cor had reminded him, sometimes it helped to tell others things you wished to believe as well. Gladio was no different, but rather than listening to him and accepting the comfort he attempted to provide for them both, Ignis had thrown it back in his face. Repeatedly. In front of Noctis, who had been asleep yet very much still present.

Was this how the rest of their time in Hammerhead would go? He’d wondered that as he’d reluctantly abandoned his post at Noctis’s side to find Gladio and apologize for his behavior. They didn’t fight often, and when they did, it was usually just a passing disagreement. Ignis didn’t care for the way Gladio worded certain things, particularly around Noctis, and in turn he believed Ignis was too gentle on the boy who would one day be their king whether he knew it or not. Their shared worry over Noctis should have brought them together, not torn them apart. The same could be said for everyone else, and they acted as such with grace and dignity. Cid, Cor, Cindy, Nyx, even Crowe when she showed up to check on Noctis after a few days—they had all swallowed their daily complaints and the trials of their own lives in order to do whatever was best for their prince. It would have been remiss of Ignis not to set aside his pride for the same reason.

Now, three weeks after the debacle had initially occurred, Ignis was constantly reminding himself of that goal; his survival seemed to depend on it. That was the only way he could weather the consistent insanity that he felt he was living through. His schedule had been annihilated and everything he was accustomed to effectively stripped from him. Where he had once been expected to attend his lessons at the same time each day and visit Noctis on the same day each month, now there was nothing more than waiting for the other shoe to drop while desperately attempting to find something to do in the meantime.

Because Noctis _didn’t_ get better the way Gladio said. Because things _didn’t_ go back to the way they used to be.

Because Noctis wasn’t the same person he’d been before, and once they weaned him off the medication, they began to see it more and more.

Ignis once thought it odd that his instructors insisted _lists_ were the key to organization. His memory was flawless, as they frequently celebrated, so writing down the tasks he wished to complete only to cross off items he accomplished had always struck him as a supreme waste of his time. In retrospect, perhaps he had been a bit too hasty in coming to that conclusion. Lists, after all, were how he was managing to keep an accurate record of what exactly they needed to fix in order to get Noctis back to his old self. He even set aside time every day to hide behind the garage and go over everything, just in case he forgot a seemingly trivial yet vital detail.

Of course, that was only _if_ he could yank himself out of reminiscences long enough to _focus_! Perhaps his concern sapped his concentration, but this was another of the countless instances where he drifted through thoughts of what had happened since they came to stay in Hammerhead when he could be doing something productive. What would his instructors say if they found out how much time he wasted with useless daydreaming when he should be figuring out how to help his prince? Well, he knew _exactly_ what they would say, and none of it made him eager to earn their disappointment.

So, he shook off his memories and pulled the little black notebook Nyx had given him out of his pocket. He had a feeling that the latter had stolen it from Takka’s—it did have the diner’s logo emblazoned on the front, so the suspicion wasn’t far-fetched at all—but that didn’t stop him from using it. The outpost wasn’t overflowing with office supplies, and his needs warranted the misdemeanor.

Glancing around to ensure that he was indeed alone, Ignis flipped open the cover and first page until he found his own neat script staring back at him. He’d gone over the entire list more times than he could count this week, but once more wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it would put him in the frame of mind he required to avoid wandering into the past and stay firmly rooted to the present for a change. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have plenty to occupy himself.

Like item number one: lack of communication. If it couldn’t be answered with a nod or shake of his head, Noctis simply _didn’t_. Gladio had tried to draw him into conversation repeatedly, even going so far as to use his usual taunting to get a rise out of their friend, all to no avail. Noctis would stare at him over the top of his covers or through Carbuncle’s ears, but his responses were few and always silent. When Gladio’s patience had eventually snapped, leaving him equally mute, Ignis had taken to babbling nonstop purely to break the tense silence that always lingered afterward. It had been his hope that, in so doing, he might lull Noctis into a calmer state where he would feel more comfortable with speaking. So far, there had been no progress on that front.

Ignis plucked a pen from the front pocket of his vest and jotted down a quick _NP_ in the margin—the fifth in as many days since he had begun keeping track. That was one they would need to keep working on.

As was item number two, a related issue: lack of interest in just about everything. It had been understandable when the physician was adamant that he remain in bed, but Noctis had been given clearance to leave Cid’s room three days ago without ever taking advantage of it. Ignis and Gladio had brought him books of puzzles they’d gotten from the convenience store (all free of charge at the kind donation of the owner), books they’d read a hundred times from his room, even prodded him to venture to Takka’s where they could appropriate the video game console for a while—none of which garnered even the slightest hint of enthusiasm from Noctis. Instead, he slept. And slept. And _slept_. He would listen if Ignis or Gladio read aloud to him; sometimes Ignis glanced over to see Noctis watching, outwardly uninterested in the story but intent on the sound of their voices. Otherwise, they could not seem to entice him with anything he would have found to be of interest before.

Which brought him to item number three after he marked yet another _NP_ beside the second: Noctis refused to leave the apartment. _Period_. Most days, they couldn’t even remove him from Cid’s room. His legs were still shaky beneath him, but while that admittedly meant he needed assistance to do more than sit up in bed, Ignis wouldn’t have thought it would keep him immobile for so long. Nyx had taken to stopping by every evening after his shift at the diner, which had been increased to _seven_ days a week for obvious reasons to anyone who knew his true purpose in Hammerhead; when he arrived, he would carry Noctis out to the kitchen for dinner. The latter didn’t speak to him either, although Ignis thought he spied a glimmer of mingled excitement and embarrassment in his eyes every time the man who’d saved his life entered the room. That, however, was the most movement he got all day. Nyx would take him back to his self-imposed prison once they were finished eating—if they could call what little Noctis managed to consume _eating_ —and there he would stay until the same time the next day.

Sighing, Ignis glanced up from his notebook and turned to peer at the window above him. _NP_ indeed, without fail, all the way down the page.

Item number four: jumping at the slightest unexpected sound.

Item number five: staring at the window as though something was about to jump through to get him, especially at night.

Item number six: fear of the dark, whatever time of day it might be.

Item number seven: lack of appetite, although that might have had more to do with the lower dosage of pain medication that he was still taking. Ignis made a mental note to ask Cor for clarification.

Item number eight: physical clinginess, but only with Cid.

Item number nine: fear of being left alone, even when Carbuncle was present, for extended lengths of time.

Item number ten: difficulty dozing off at night, although he slept like the dead when he _did_ find rest.

The list went on and on. Some factors gave Ignis less cause for concern than others, but the reality was that they were all issues that Noctis _hadn’t_ exhibited before he was attacked. It simply wasn’t natural for him to be the timid, quiet, easily startled child he had become. He should have been excited to see them; he should be chomping at the proverbial bit to go back to school. Whatever newfound lens he was seeing the world through had completely changed his entire outlook, as far as Ignis could tell, and that could not stand. They had to do _something_ —it was merely a question of what.

And thus, he was back to the same square one he’d been inhabiting for three weeks. He hated to say that he missed the early days, but blaming Noctis’s demeanor on his pain or the medication was far preferable to admitting that there was a problem here that Ignis simply could not remedy.

Wasn’t that his job? Wasn’t that his destiny—to guide Noctis and see to his every need?

Wasn’t that what he was meant to do as his _friend_?

Slamming his notebook shut in frustration, Ignis stuffed it unceremoniously back into his pocket and buried his face in his hands. This was so pointless. Three weeks, and he still had no clue what he was doing. He was _better_ than this—he _had_ to be. Why, then, was everything so much harder than anticipated?

Maybe they’d chosen the wrong person. Maybe there was someone else out there who would have these answers and know exactly what needed to be done for Noctis. After everything that had happened, he wouldn’t even begrudge them that—anything to make Noctis better, no matter what it meant for him. Even if King Regis kicked him out of the Citadel for his ineffectiveness, Ignis would understand.

The only comfort he could find in the situation was that as far as he could tell, Cor and Cid were just as much at a loss as he was; Gladio was practically glued to Noctis’s side these days, but even he couldn’t come up with anything more useful than simple, admittedly awkward proximity.

There had to be a solution. Ignis refused to believe that there wasn’t. There was _no such thing_ as a lost cause, not where he was concerned.

King Regis was counting on him. He was counting on all of them.

They had to _do something_! If the old activities that Noctis used to like didn’t work, then maybe they could grab his attention with a new attraction. Not that Ignis had any idea where they would find such a miracle in this tiny outpost in the middle of nowhere. Anything worth doing was miles away, and there was little chance of the adults agreeing to any road trips so soon after Noctis’s injury. For one thing, he still wasn’t quite as steady as he would need to be; for another, if his reaction to something as simple as the sun going down every night was a sign, it likely would be less fun and more stress for Noctis. Whatever they did, it would have to come from right here.

Hammerhead.

Land of the insufferably _boring_.

Critical thinking was important in any endeavor, but for heaven’s sake, why were the Six testing his skills in such a heartless way?!

Ignis was so busy cataloging the few potential outlets Hammerhead might have available that he didn’t realize he had company until something wet and warm left drool on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Ugh!” he yelped, his head snapping up to find a pair of bright amber eyes staring at him from a furry face. It must have been a testament to how stressed he’d felt the last few weeks that Ignis hadn’t heard Umbra’s approach, and while it was nice to see the transient hound for the first time since they’d arrived, Ignis couldn’t help leveling him with his flattest glower as he wiped the moisture off on the side of his pants. “Hello, Umbra.”

Either the dog had no idea that he’d just made a great deal of work for the Citadel’s launders or he simply didn’t care. His expression remained entirely impassive as he huffed out a hot breath in greeting and shoved his nose into Ignis’s lap.

All right, this pair of trousers _was_ a lost cause.

There weren’t many animals at the Citadel, except for the stray cats that His Majesty was too kind to turn out onto the streets, so the majority of his interactions with four-legged furballs occurred on their trips to the outpost. Ignis wouldn’t say that he was particularly _fond_ of domesticated creatures; he wasn’t averse to them either, though. Umbra wasn’t always there when they were, but he wasn’t bothered by the dog’s presence on the off chance that their visits coincided. In fact, it was…actually rather calming to run his fingers through Umbra’s fur. Purely because the dog expected it, of course.

Just like he quite obviously wished to socialize, and only Ignis was nearby to oblige him. There was no other reason for him to quietly sigh, “I don’t know what to do, Umbra. Nothing I try is working.”

As expected, he received no response. His canine companion simply wriggled closer until Ignis saw no alternative but to wrap his arms around Umbra’s neck and hug him tight. What else was he to do when the dog was practically sitting in his lap?

“I’m a terrible friend,” Ignis whispered into his fur, blinking back the traitorous tears that had been trying to reveal his emotions against his will for days. He’d done a fair job of hiding them so far, of not drawing attention to himself when Noctis required it more, but it was difficult. It was exhausting. It was painful.

Umbra wouldn’t tell anyone, though. That was beyond his capacity for discourse.

That didn’t mean Ignis was just going to let himself fall to pieces over this. He was already of almost no use to Noctis as it was; the last thing he needed was to lose sight of his goal and whatever potential he _did_ have. Umbra’s comfort was nice—he wouldn’t let it break him, though. He _couldn’t_.  

As a rule, the stray was gentle and patient to the point where he would have been content to remain behind the garage with Ignis all day. That was why he forced himself to pull away much sooner than he would have liked. There wasn’t time for that when so many things demanded his attention: Gladio and Noctis were waiting for him, even if it felt like his presence was unnecessary recently. A minute wasted out here was possibly a minute that would have brought him closer to fathoming a solution to this mystery.

It appeared that Umbra wasn’t going to let him go without imparting one of his own, however. As if Ignis needed another to decipher.

Just as he was preparing to push the dog back and return to his post, he noticed something on the ground by his foot that hadn’t been there before—a card, from the looks of it. Frowning, Ignis glanced at Umbra as if he might know what it was before reaching down to pick it up. He _knew_ it hadn’t come from his notebook; he never stuck anything within the pages, preferring to maintain a more appropriate level of organization through sheer force of habit. When he turned it over and caught sight of the even, neatly sloping words on the front, his curiosity only deepened. That was not his handwriting, nor that of anyone he knew. Gladio’s script was sloppy and disjointed much of the time, not for lack of ability but simply because he was too impatient to put in the effort; Cid and Cor both used more perfunctory strokes, which suited their personalities quite accurately. Ignis would have said that it looked a touch too feminine for any of them, but he noticed distinct differences from Cindy’s style as well.

So…where had it come from?

Umbra must have believed he was overthinking things—and maybe he was—because he lifted a paw to pointedly nudge the side of Ignis’s leg after an immeasurable moment. He attempted to brush the gesture aside, but that didn’t appear to be the reaction the stray was looking for; as such, he took to digging his nose into the hand Ignis wasn’t using to hold the mysterious missive with an almost impatient air. If a human had looked at him with the same expression, Ignis would have thought they were trying to tell him something. But that was simply impossible in this instance. Talking dogs were things of fables, not reality. He was merely an intelligent canine, as many of them were, even if Ignis thought it rather odd that the card had appeared when Umbra did.

And that he seemed to have a personal interest in Ignis paying attention to it.

_Personal interest? He’s a_ dog _!_

Shoving that thought aside, Ignis quirked an eyebrow at Umbra’s odd behavior before shifting his gaze to skim through the contents of the card. There wasn’t much to look at, but what he _did_ see made him even more confused than before.

What use would Umbra have for a _recipe_ , of all things?

There was no mistaking it, although he wanted to believe that there was some hidden message he wasn’t seeing. It was rather obvious when a list of ingredients—some he knew and others he didn’t—preceded a set of relatively simple instructions on how to combine them into… _something_. Ignis wasn’t quite sure, and there was no title on the paper to tell him. Based on the components, he thought it must be a kind of dessert; he remembered assisting his _real_ uncle with something similar the previous year. If that were the case, and if Umbra really _had_ delivered the card as it seemed, then…why would a dog want him to make a pie?

Upon closer inspection, Ignis belatedly realized that he was approaching the situation from entirely the wrong direction. It wasn’t _Umbra_ pushing him to acquire a taste for baking—it was whoever _owned_ him.

And with the insignia of the House Fleuret at the top of the card, he had a pretty good idea of who that might be.

Well. Cor _had_ said once that there were more people watching over Noctis than they knew. Ignis wouldn’t exactly have assumed the Oracle was taking such a personal hand in ensuring his wellbeing, but he wouldn’t look a gift chocobo in the mouth—or gift dog, as it were.

Despite his reluctance to leave Noctis any longer than absolutely necessary, Ignis didn’t return to the apartment right away. Rather, he jogged towards the diner with the recipe card clutched tightly in his hand and Umbra following at his heels. He already knew that he wouldn’t find the required ingredients or equipment at Cid’s to do as the instructions described, which only left…

“Nyx.”

Their _man on the inside_ , as Cor called him, turned away from the stove at the sound of his name and mustered a small smile for him as he came around the counter. Ignis could spy the beginnings of bags forming under his eyes from his daily shifts and knew that he had to be tired; there was no other reason for him to be in Hammerhead so often, however, and an increased workload had always been in the cards if they diverted to emergency protocols. Knowing Nyx as well as Ignis did—and understanding the Kingsglaive creed as well as he had been taught to—he had no doubt that the former was unbothered by the inconvenience. None of them were: as long as Noctis required the attention, all their comfort had to come second.

“Hey, Ignis,” Nyx murmured, returning to his task. It appeared that he was on burger duty today—not the most nutritious meal, according to his instructors. “How’s Noctis?”

“The same,” he replied, understanding completely when Nyx merely hummed in disappointed acknowledgement.

_Let’s see if we can’t change that._

Ignis briefly surveyed the diner to make sure no one was listening, although it was rather unnecessary: Takka’s was quiet today, so there was little chance that they would be overheard. It was neither a delicate nor confidential matter that they were discussing—not when everyone in Hammerhead knew what had happened to Noctis and, in many cases, had already visited Cid to offer their condolences. Regardless, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to openly state that the Oracle was apparently in contact with certain individuals at the outpost. She lived half a world away, but her position was by no means secure.

Once he was as positive as he could be that their conversation would not carry, Ignis sidled up beside Nyx and held out the card for him to see. “I thought this might help.”

Frowning, the latter turned down the heat on the stove and set his spatula aside. Ignis wasn’t sure what he expected—a smile, some modicum of surprise perhaps—but Nyx rolling his eyes wasn’t it.

“What?” he demanded. If he was going to say that this was a bad idea, then he would regret it when Ignis contradicted him with at least thirteen rebuttals and counting.

That wasn’t quite what had sparked such a reaction, as it turned out.

“Did Umbra bring you this?” asked Nyx wryly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward despite the exasperation in his tone.

Ignis blinked at him before turning towards the door to see the canine in question waiting just outside. “Uh… Yes?”

Snorting, Nyx shook his head and murmured, “Why am I not surprised?” under his breath as his eyes scanned over the recipe.

As much as Ignis wanted to ask, he decided it would be best to log his response away for future examination and let him get on with it instead. If Nyx was aware of the Oracle’s involvement—and his reaction all but confirmed that Ignis’s assumption was indeed correct—then all the better. It would mean less need for potentially lengthy explanations. Whatever got him back to Noctis’s side as soon as possible was fine by him.

“Well,” sighed Nyx, tapping his finger absently against the side of the paper, “I guess if wonder dog out there thinks this is a good idea, then we might as well give it a shot. Not a vegetable in sight, so it can’t make things worse.”

At this point, Ignis thought that _nothing_ could make the situation worse than it already was, so he simply nodded his agreement as Nyx retreated to the back of the diner to find the ingredients they would require.

What ensued amounted to the longest span of time Ignis had spent outside the apartment since the night of the incident. Nyx must have noticed his growing—and utterly irrational—distress, because he offered on more than one occasion to finish the concoction on his own so that Ignis could get back to Noctis and Gladio. Each time, he declined. This was something he _had_ to do—Umbra had brought the Oracle’s recipe to _him_ , not Nyx. Yes, he needed some help with the preparation, and admittedly there were instructions that he couldn’t make sense of given his rather basic knowledge of the culinary arts. But it was his task, his duty, _his_ mission, and he would see it through to the end no matter how distraught he was at staying away for so long.

Not that an hour and a half was some enormous, unreasonable absence. Honestly, it was less time than Cor had been encouraging both him and Gladio to spend outside. His offers to sit with Noctis were always met with either terse refusals or outright silence, as neither of them wished to vacate Cid’s room under any circumstances unless it was for some unavoidable purpose. Not even his position as the marshal of the Crownsguard could make them acquiesce to his request, and he seemed to know that as he never pressed the issue. After a while, it sounded more like a platitude than anything else—something he knew he _had_ to say even if he realized that it was pointless.

That was probably why he and Cid looked so surprised when Ignis finally returned to the garage, a covered dish in his hands and his shoulders set in a straight line. Neither of them asked what it was he carried; they trusted him not to give Noctis anything that wouldn’t agree with him, and it was obvious where he’d gotten it anyway. They simply watched with silent, stoic expressions to match his own as he stomped up the stairs to the apartment.

Like he had when Ignis went to find Nyx, Umbra remained outside. It distantly occurred to him that perhaps bringing the canine upstairs would be a potential method of drawing Noctis out of his shell, but now wasn’t the time to test his theory. If this didn’t work, if the Oracle’s apparent plot did not suffice, then Ignis would reevaluate and consider letting Noctis visit with his favorite stray.

Until then, he would not take _no_ for an answer on these pastries. …Or a shake of the head, which was far more likely.

When he reentered Cid’s room, it was to discover that nothing had changed since he left, much to his dismay. Gladio was sitting on top of the dresser, swinging his feet so that they bumped annoyingly against the wood, and Noctis was huddled beneath the blankets on his side with Carbuncle’s head pressed to his cheek and his eyes on the window.

_Item number five_ , Ignis sighed inwardly. _No progress._

At least the sound of his footsteps attracted Noctis’s attention enough to distract him. His gaze darted towards the door, and he met Ignis’s eyes for a second before tilting his head to survey his load. Ignis wouldn’t call his reaction particularly expressive, but he could tell from the slight narrowing of Noctis’s eyes and the way he pursed his lips just _slightly_ that he wasn’t pleased to have been brought food. Admittedly, he could understand that: mealtimes were difficult to navigate as it was without Ignis trying to make him eat more.

“What’s that?” inquired Gladio, nodding at his offering. He’d been speaking for Noctis ever since he’d regained a more stable level of consciousness, and while Ignis tended to berate him for not trying to give the prince more incentive to do so himself, this time it was rather useful.

“I found something that Nyx and I thought Noctis might like,” he replied with a gentle smile at their friend.

The mention of one of Noctis’s oldest companions didn’t sway his opinion. If anything, it seemed to make him even more reluctant to get a look at what was under the frosted cover that hid their creation from view. Rather, he hugged Carbuncle in front of his face and turned away, retreating back into whatever world he’d begun to dwell in where Ignis and Gladio could not follow.

But not this time.

This time, Ignis wasn’t going to let him. There was a flame in his chest that grew hotter and brighter with the idea that he was going to fail, that he was going to let Noctis and the king and Cor and Cid and _everyone_ down. He was not stupid enough to believe that one pastry would help, no matter who it was that gave him the recipe; if recent experience had taught him anything, it was that they were in for a long series of trials in Noctis’s recovery. This was simply one of them, and he would overcome it just as he would everything else his friend tossed his way.

Because they _were_ friends. Ignis was his friend and his future advisor. He didn’t know _how_ to give up, even if he wasn’t always sure how to keep going either.

So, he stomped over to the side of the bed and placed himself immediately in Noctis’s line of sight. Gladio was smart enough not to say anything, simply letting it all play out before him, and Ignis was grateful for it. Things would be easier if he could just do this his way.

_His way_ , of course, would normally have been a lot less pointed than kneeling on the floor and popping open the dish to place a little pastry in front of Noctis’s nose.

“You should try this, Noct.”

No answer, unsurprisingly. Noctis simply stared at him as though he’d spoken a different language.

Taking a deep breath, Ignis tried again, this time using Nyx’s observation to his advantage. “It doesn’t have any vegetables. I swear it.”

Nothing.

“Just take one bite, Noct,” Gladio sighed behind him, his feet banging against the dresser once more. Noctis’s eyes shifted to him before focusing again on Ignis and what he had to perceive as the tiny slice of hell he was holding. Something in his gaze wavered, and although it made his stomach churn with regret already, Ignis decided he would appeal to Noctis’s kinder side—the side of him that, like Ignis, had always feared disappointing others.

“Nyx went to a lot of trouble to make this for you,” he pointed out as evenly as possible. “I’m sure he’ll be eager to hear what you thought of it tonight.”

_That_ did it. Ignis could tell from the trembling in Noctis’s bottom lip and the indecision in his eyes. He didn’t _want_ to eat it—he probably wasn’t even feeling well enough to keep it down—but he would try because Nyx was fictitiously hoping he would. (Of course, he _was_ , but not enough for Ignis to use him like this. If it got Noctis to eat, however, he thought it would be worth the white lie.)

There was enough guilt beneath his resolve that Ignis didn’t simply hand him one of the pastries as a whole the way he normally would have. As something of a compromise, he carefully tore off a small piece and held it out for Noctis to take in his tentative fingers. Watching him bring the crumbs to his mouth with what Ignis could only describe as a monumental effort was almost as draining as he assumed Noctis found it. He paused a handful of times, as if he was about to give up but was forcing himself to do it anyway.

Ignis wanted to tell him that he _could_. He wanted to remind him that he was stronger than he seemed to believe these days, now that the darkness held terrors he’d never feared and the world outside represented a danger he’d never registered. There was so much he could have said, but he kept his mouth shut in case it backfired and solidified Noctis’s apparent certainty that he _couldn’t_ do it. Gladio, who didn’t always know the right time to use his words or keep them to himself, was silent; his feet weren’t beating against the dresser anymore, and Ignis couldn’t even hear the sound of his breathing.

He knew that feeling—after all, he was holding his own breath as Noctis finally popped the bit of dessert past his lips with the haste of someone who just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Chewing.

Swallowing.

A pause.

“How was it?” he asked when he couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

At first, it seemed like Noctis might be sick—an unfortunate outcome when they had difficulty carrying him between the two of them and would never make it to the bathroom in time to spare the bedding. That expression of distaste faded away after a few moments, though, leaving something surprised and slightly intrigued in its place.

Then, in what Ignis thought must be his imagination playing tricks on him, Noctis poked his hand out from beneath the covers again in a hesitant gesture for _more_.

Ignis was only too happy to oblige, especially when he was repaid for his efforts with a little hand closing around his fingers and the knowledge that his prince had something in his stomach for a change.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

 

***

 

That was it. It had finally happened.

Gladiolus Amicitia, Shield to the crown prince of Lucis, had reached the end of his rope.

Really, he was kind of surprised he’d lasted this long. They’d been in Hammerhead for just over a month now, and every second had been a strain on his patience. If it wasn’t Noctis’s condition, it was his behavior; if it wasn’t his behavior, it was the fact that Gladio couldn’t do a damn thing to make it better. Even Ignis had managed to do more than him, although maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by that. The guy was obsessed with being perfect, so as terrible as Gladio felt over the whole thing, he knew that it was a million times worse for him.

_Least he actually_ did _something_ , he grumbled to himself, kicking a clump of dirt out of his way as he paced in front of the garage.

That _was_ a tough pill to swallow, even if Ignis did admit that he wasn’t the one who came up with the idea in the first place. Maybe the Oracle would count that as a win for herself, but Gladio didn’t. If she really wanted to help, then she could get off her royal butt and do it. Yeah, okay, so her hands were sort of tied what with the empire being in charge of Tenebrae—still, though, there had to be some way for her to get out. There were a million escape plans documented at the Citadel just in case something like that ever happened. Either Niflheim was just that good or her bodyguards were incompetent.

Gladio had a feeling it was the latter.

If it were _him_ , he would have had Noct through the back door and on his way out of the Crown City well in advance of the imperial soldiers marching up to the gates. That was what he was supposed to do—he’d literally had to memorize the route with one of his Crownsguard trainers _years_ ago, before he’d even met the prince let alone become his friend. In the event of an emergency, they’d said, Noctis was his number one priority no matter how old they were. Gladio would have to leave everything behind—family included, although he had no doubt they could take care of themselves—and get him to safety. He was the future of the kingdom; he held all their fates in his hands.

Whoever had been in charge of security in Tenebrae probably died three years ago, which served them right in his opinion. The Lucian government took Noct’s safety more seriously than just about anything else—if they didn’t, then Gladio wouldn’t even be in Hammerhead right now, wearing a line in the pavement. If a simple _prince_ had that kind of protection, then there was no excuse for the Oracle to be in this position, especially not when she could have been a huge help.

Now, though, he was stuck. Ignis had done all he could—he was _still_ doing all he could, only unlike Gladio, it worked for _him_. He and Nyx had spent every morning making so many platefuls of those pastries that Gladio couldn’t help but wonder how many more containers would fit comfortably inside Cid’s previously empty refrigerator. They definitely didn’t need to be _that_ proactive—they’d be swimming in the stupid things for the next six months. None of them were going to argue when they finally found something that worked, though. Whatever berries they used to make the filling were tasty and all, but that wasn’t what made the Oracle send the recipe. No, it was something even better: they settled Noct’s stomach when the medication he was taking messed it up. Not that they _knew_ that that was the case when their mostly silent prince didn’t actually _tell_ them, of course. It hadn’t been that hard to figure out, however, when Noct could down those like they were going out of style _and_ eat a sizable portion of his dinner again. He wasn’t back to normal; he still ate so little that they were all beginning to notice how his shirts sat a little looser on him. Regardless, those cakes were a step in the right direction, and they weren’t about to take a chance on running out.

So, Ignis spent his mornings cooking with Nyx at the diner, memorizing the process to recreate them on his own. Cid and Cindy ran the garage, usually with Cor alternating between helping with whatever needed doing and checking on Noct.

That just left him: the big, useless lunkhead who had nothing better to do than sit around and watch the prince sleep.

Maybe it was his imagination, but he felt like everyone else managed to contribute far more than he did. Cid and Cindy were Noct’s family—as far as he knew, anyway—so it made sense that he would gravitate towards them after what had happened. Every night, Cid came in to sit with him until he fell asleep, a comforting presence that seemed to keep the daemons at bay more effectively than lights or walls. Ignis was his dessert provider and secondary comfort; now that he was at least moving around the apartment a bit more, Noct wouldn’t go anywhere without Ignis at his side. Most of it was simply his need for support to stay upright since his back still wasn’t up to the strain for long periods of time, but there was more to it than that as well.

Now, they were getting ready to return to Insomnia tomorrow, and Gladio _still_ hadn’t done anything that amounted to much. Hell, even Cor had accomplished more: he’d vanished for a few hours yesterday after they broke the news to Noct and his heart along with it, and when he returned, he was carrying a box with a brand new phone inside. Cid was adamant that he could only use it to call Ignis and Gladio, both of whom had gotten devices of their own ages ago so their instructors could keep in constant contact. All Noct really registered was that he could call them when they weren’t around, though, and he’d gone through the ceiling in that quiet way he had of expressing his excitement these days.

Gladio wasn’t sure whether he’d be able to take the constant text messages made up of animal emojis, but he figured he would deal with it if it made Noct happy. It was the least he could do when nothing else seemed to matter.

That was the most frustrating part: literally everyone else could find some way to make things better for Noct except the one person who was _supposed_ to protect him. The day he’d take over as Shield was so far away that he couldn’t even picture it yet, but he was painfully aware of the fact that it _was_ coming. If Cor was to be believed, it would be here before he knew it—much sooner than he was probably ready for. How was he supposed to keep Noct safe when he couldn’t even figure out how to make him _smile_?

Unlike Ignis, he couldn’t cook, so there were no sweet treats to be had as far as he was concerned. He wasn’t as big and strong as Nyx, nor did he have his level of training yet, so there was no way he could have taken down that daemon. Cid and Cindy didn’t have to put in much effort at all, and Cor was probably loaded, so he could buy expensive presents.

Gladio just stood there looking stupid.

Or, in this case, _paced_. It was better than staring at the wall some more.

Ignis must have realized how much it bothered him, because he hadn’t tried to spew the same old garbage about how _just being there is enough_ —yeah, right. If that were true, then Noct would be better and they wouldn’t have had to mention it. But he wasn’t, nor was he likely to be for some time, and Gladio was at a loss for how he could make any sort of difference before they went home tomorrow.

He’d left them upstairs to clear his head and hopefully find some answers, but nothing was coming to mind. There were only so many books a guy could take, though, so he wasn’t ready to head back inside yet either. He was positive that he wasn’t missing much anyway—Ignis reading aloud while Noct dozed in and out was a pretty common occurrence, one that he could witness any time.

Admittedly, the brainstorming session wasn’t exactly doing him a lot of good. So far, he’d come up with about ten ideas ranging from balloons (which were impossible to get in Hammerhead) to throwing him into a tub of cold water to see if that snapped him out of whatever was messing with his head (which Ignis assured him was as inadvisable as it was cruel). Every one of them got tossed out for one reason or another, and it was leaving him so frustrated that he wanted to hit something. Why was it that no magical mystery dog showed up to help when _he_ needed it?

Letting his frustration get the better of him, Gladio ran at the pile of garbage Cid had left beside the garage and kicked a busted old socket wrench as hard as he possibly could. The echoing _clang_ it made when it flew into a heap of scrap metal was oddly satisfying, albeit nowhere near as effective as a simple solution to the larger issue at hand. For an insane, desperate second, Gladio thought of simply grabbing the headlight that rolled out of the mound towards him and presenting it to Noct like some oversized nightlight. Hey, if Ignis solved his food problems with a well-placed dessert, it couldn’t be too out there.

_Actually…_

Gladio bit down on the laugh that bubbled up at his own stupid idea when he realized that maybe…it wasn’t such a dumb thought after all. It wasn’t like Noct could sleep with the lights off anymore; they’d kept them on for over a month, and Gladio was so used to it now that it would be strange to sleep in the dark at home. When they left and Cid eventually moved Noct back to his own room…

He didn’t have a nightlight in there. Just a lamp.

A lamp with a dinky little light bulb that tended to blink out if you jostled it too much.

_Huh. That’ll work._

Well, he _hoped_.

Gladio didn’t even want to guess what Cid was thinking when he ran into the garage with the broken headlight clutched in his hands like it held all the answers to the universe. It was probably something along the lines of _why is this idiot kid going through my garbage_ , but he didn’t let that deter him. Ignis had taken advice from a _dog_ —Gladio could give this a try all by himself.

“Can you fix this?” he demanded immediately, shoving the light under Cid’s nose where he was leaned over the engine bay of an old junker. The latter frowned down at it in confusion.

“The hell you want a busted ol’ hunk’a junk for?”

“To make a nightlight.”

Cid blinked at him, his expression utterly uncomprehending. Jeez, Gladio had to do _everything_ around here.

“For Noct,” he elaborated impatiently. “He hasn’t got one, and it’d probably help ‘im sleep.”

By the time he finished, Cid was nodding slowly with an expression of dawning understanding and amusement. Gladio already didn’t like the look of it.

“So, you wanna make ‘im one instead of just buyin’ it like normal folks.”

Huffing, Gladio observed, “Not a lot of places to go shopping here.”

That made Cid laugh. “No, I reckon you got a point there. But _that_ ain’t gonna help you much,” he added, nodding pointedly at the headlight. “Damn thing blew a fuse.”

_Just my luck_ , Gladio didn’t bother saying aloud. He had no need for anyone’s pity, especially not Cid’s. The last thing Gladio wanted was to invite it, especially when he and Cor had done a pretty good job of offering it this month without provocation.

Before he had a chance to ditch the trash and head back to the drawing board, however, Cid surprised him by pensively suggesting, “Suppose we could grab a new one ‘n’ see what we can do.”

Which was exactly what they did. Gladio probably shouldn’t have been so shocked that Cid would be willing to waste a perfectly good headlight on a kid’s shield against night terrors—the guy had proven he cared about Noct like he really _was_ his own nephew. Still, he was a bit taken aback when Cid went right for the supply closet in the back of the garage and returned with one of the nicer models he’d said he only used on more expensive cars in the past.

This was about to get professional—or as close as it got when you had a Shield-in-training and a mechanic trying to figure out how to take a car part and turn it into a standard household item. The attempt had both of them practicing their most colorful vocabulary, which kept Cindy alternating between laughing and reprimanding them from underneath the car she was trying to install new brake lines in. For the most part, Gladio ignored her: if she wasn’t going to help them, then she could shove her constant reminders for him to watch his mouth where the light didn’t shine. Even Cor, who had never failed him when it came to knowing what he should do, had nothing to contribute here. All he could say was that Cid was the most likely candidate to figure it out, much to the latter’s chagrin and consequent grumbling.

Appropriately enough, it took them until the sun had long since gone down before they had anything that remotely resembled what Gladio was going for. Cid had eventually set him a different task, namely that of painting the front so that it wasn’t like Noct had a giant flood lamp in the middle of his bedroom all night, while the former finished working on (see: _bitching at_ ) the electrical side of things.

Gladio knew better than to argue.

Besides, part of him thought that he’d been given the more difficult job. He wouldn’t exactly describe himself as the most creative person; part of why he didn’t go to a normal school was so that he wasn’t inundated with worthless subjects he’d never have to use as Noct’s Shield. Art was definitely at the top of that list. Add to that the limited paint options Cid had for him to choose from, and Gladio was about ready to give up.

He sort of owed it all to Noct that he came up with an idea at all. Just as he’d decided to simply use one color on the whole thing, his eyes fell on an old drawing of Noct’s that Cid had hung up in the garage amongst the countless others he and Cindy had created when they were little. (Gladio had only seen his office once, but he remembered thinking that Cid was using their artwork as wallpaper, he had so many in there.)

The closest one was of the sun rising over the hills—well, that was what it kind of looked like to him. It was a tossup as to whether Noct was trying to draw the scenery or had simply vomited all over the paper. Given how long it had been decorating Cid’s place of business, he _really_ hoped it was the dawn.

Either way, it seemed like a simple enough picture, so Gladio tried to recreate it as best he could. The end result wasn’t the greatest, and he had to make a few changes to match the colors he had available, but he didn’t think it was too bad when he was finished. Cindy’s smarmy giggles weren’t important enough to make him ask Cid for another go.

What _was_ important was the look on Noct’s face when Gladio stomped into his room, hands covered in chipping paint and the last of his patience having withered away as he’d watched Cid assemble the final product. The prince didn’t say anything ( _go figure)_ ; he simply watched Gladio cross the room and thrust the makeshift nightlight into the only open socket with a silent prayer that it worked.

Maybe the Six decided to throw him a bone, or perhaps the Oracle had somehow lent them another hand—whatever it was, Gladio heaved a sigh of relief when the light automatically blinked on, throwing hues of blue and green and yellow around the room like a kaleidoscope. If Gladio were a sap, he would have said it looked magical.

…Okay, so it kinda did, but Ignis would _never_ find out.

All thoughts of the torment he would endure if his friend learned about what Ignis would dub his _soft side_ evaporated the moment he turned and saw how Noct’s face was alight with something they hadn’t seen all month. He was staring around the room, examining the way the different colors Gladio had used reflected off the walls and painted their skin in temporary tattoos. His expression was so startling—so mesmerizing in its infrequency—that he didn’t notice Noctis beckoning him closer at first. When he did, it was like he’d been shot out of a cannon, and he was perching gingerly on the edge of the mattress almost before he realized he’d moved.

Gladio hadn’t gotten far enough in his planning to consider what he would say, so he shrugged uncomfortably and muttered the first thing that came to mind: “It’s no big deal.”

To Noct, however, it appeared to be anything but. Gladio never would have thought that a stupid painted headlight would make him so happy, but the prince—his _friend_ —shyly wrapped his arms around Gladio’s torso and squeezed him almost as tight as he’d been holding on to Carbuncle these days.

Gladio wasn’t much of a hugger. He _wasn’t_.

He carefully threw an arm over Noct’s shoulders and pulled him in close anyway.

It didn’t even bother him when Ignis arrived on the scene a few minutes later to summon them for dinner and found Noct fast asleep, using his Shield as a pillow. Of all the things he’d never live down, he figured he could handle that one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) We are over 100K! :D Please bear in mind, though, that this chapter is extra long because I couldn't justify splitting it in two. My next chapter should return to normal length!
> 
> 2) Just a heads up: things are a bit busy now, so while I'm still updating as close to once a week as possible, I may need a couple of extra days to make sure I can continue to provide content of the quality I expect of myself and hope that you've come to expect from me. :)


	14. Call to Arms

“He has come of age.”

Clarus’s reflection nodded in Regis’s mirror. “He has.”

“The years make fools of us,” he murmured with a smirk, straightening his mantle where it sat with comfortable familiarity on his shoulders. “The young grow older, and the rest of us merely grow old.”

Scoffing, his Shield folded his arms and retorted, “Perhaps it would be wise for Your Majesty to speak for Himself.”

That made him laugh, albeit with a touch of sadness that Regis wished he could banish to no avail. “Indeed, you are as spritely in your advanced years as the day we met.”

“ _More_ so. I would guarantee it.”

“Age has done you well.”

Clarus nodded, a cocky grin turning up his lips before he gestured towards Regis and added, “As it has you.”

“Certainly you jest,” he contradicted him, shaking his head in denial when his Shield’s expression grew more determined. He knew that look.

“You sell yourself short, Regis, as you always have.”

“I’ve always considered it better to sell oneself too short than overreach one’s abilities.”

“I doubt that would be a possibility for you.”

Regis nodded with a smile he did not truly feel, turning his attention back to the mirror to scrutinize his appearance one last time. The man staring out at him was evidence enough that his Shield was biased in his favor, although he supposed few would know it to look at him. His once jet-black hair bore a few telling streaks of silver that were beginning to peek through in the right light, and lines had crept into the corners of his eyes when he hadn’t noticed. Some would doubtless claim that it was the wisdom of his gradually progressing years that altered him thus; he had heard compliments to that effect before, not that he ever replied with more than grateful incredulity. No, he did not appear _old_ —at least, not as old as he remembered believing his father seemed in the lattermost portion of his life, when he was an age not far past where Regis found himself now. Regardless, years of responsibility and grief had weighed on him until the person watching from the other side of the glass could sometimes feel like an entirely separate entity.

In that aging king’s tenure, one would have thought he would accomplish so much more. That was not to say that he hadn’t done a great deal for his kingdom, because he _had_. Some would insist that the accomplishments he’d guided to fruition were solely attributed to him, but he gave credit where it was due: in conjunction with his council and the talented individuals who worked beneath him, Regis had ensured something closely resembling peace within the borders of Lucis. The coastline was secure; their efforts to counteract the imperial blockade had been successful in large part due to the empire’s inability to monetarily sustain such actions for as long as their ambitions dictated. Even the daemons had been less numerous since he’d increased the Kingsglaive’s presence in the outlying territories. They were seeing an economic upturn, and his people were content if not happy.

But it still wasn’t enough. Today would be proof of that.

“It has been eight years since Tenebrae was annexed,” Regis sighed to his reflection. Clarus stiffened where he could still see him out of the corner of his eye. “We cannot know what to expect from its new… _king_.”

“Calling that boy a king is as much a farce as his ascension,” muttered Clarus, frowning skeptically.

Regis brushed a speck of dust from his jacket with a grunt of agreement. “Even so, he _is_ king, if only in name.”

“Which begs the question of why Aldercapt would allow him to take the throne.”

That question had been on everyone’s mind since the news was released a month prior. None of them, least of all Regis, would have thought the empire would permit anyone to rule Tenebrae but the emperor himself and whoever he appointed to the task of local administration. Not only would it cause quite the conflict with regards to the chain of command, but it would mean willingly surrendering a portion of his power to another. That had _never_ been Aldercapt’s preference.

So, why? Why would they promote the son of the last Oracle to his rightful and lofty position? Why would they give him even the slightest fraction of control over his kingdom? Why would they allow him to send word that he wished for an audience with Regis at his earliest convenience?

Was it too selfish to believe that it was all to spite him, that this was merely a game in which Aldercapt and his magical jester were seeking to dangle his failure before his nose?

No, it wasn’t. Ardyn Izunia’s apparent obsession with revenge knew no bounds. He had taken everything Regis held dear without a second thought—forcing him to relive one of the greatest disappointments he’d ever suffered in meeting with the new king of Tenebrae was hardly the most shocking of the mage’s attempts on his soul.  

“You do realize,” his Shield broke through his thoughts, summoning him back to his chambers when his mind had strayed far afield, “that you will at no time be left unaccompanied with him.”

Ah, he’d been wondering when they were going to encounter this particular concern. Honestly, it was surprising that they hadn’t come to it sooner.

“You believe the king of Tenebrae might be some sort of assassin bent on my demise?” Regis mused disbelievingly, turning away from the failure in his mirror to level Clarus with an expression of utmost amusement.

The latter, however, clearly did not share his humor.

“ _You_ believe he wishes you no harm?” he rejoined, equally incredulous.

“That has yet to be determined.”

“Nor will I allow it to, regardless of your stubbornness.”

Regis narrowly avoided rolling his eyes, but it was a difficult feat. “I am aware that his presence incites a substantial amount of uncertainty, especially as his communication was vague regarding the details of his visit—”

“If you wish to put it mildly—”

“However,” he interrupted before his Shield could continue, his tone brooking no argument, “there are more questions that need answering than I care to admit. We know nothing of his purpose here, nor have our contacts in Tenebrae been forthcoming with information of their own. For the last eight years, we have been all but blind to that region, Clarus. In this instance, a certain level of risk may be unavoidable.”

“A _certain level of risk_ is allowing an imperial pawn into the Citadel to begin with,” countered Clarus immediately. Where Regis had fallen back from their friendly banter into his role as king, his Shield was obviously considering the situation from the standpoint of the man in charge of ensuring his safety. As such, Regis could not blame him for the callous way he spat, “Living with rats only begets more fleas.”

“That may be,” admitted Regis reasonably, “yet I am willing to sacrifice some peace of mind to shine a light into their nest.”

Perhaps Clarus sensed the air of finality in his tone or merely understood that there was no talking him out of what he must do. Either way, he didn’t argue further; he simply inclined his head in a sharp gesture of scorn.

“As Your Majesty commands.”

If Regis weren’t so practiced in the art of clutching his emotions in an ironclad fist, never revealing them unless he desired to do so, he would undoubtedly have flinched at the harshness of his Shield’s reluctant acquiescence. The occasions when they disagreed to the point of such hostility were infrequent, and even those were only in the direst of circumstances, when the world seemed so impossible to maneuver that they could hardly count the barriers to their satisfaction. He would not claim that he wasn’t just as unsure of their guest’s motives—he would be a fool not to suspect some foul play, knowing the master potentially pulling Ravus’s strings—yet the stress his Shield was apparently suffering in light of their ignorance struck Regis right where his guilt ran deepest.

As such, he thought it would be remiss of him _not_ to step forward and place a firm hand on Clarus’s shoulder, forcing the latter to meet his eyes. When he did, Regis subjected him to an expression he reserved only for those he cared deeply about: reassurance, surety, and the confirmation that he would do everything in his power to cure all ills.

“The sentiment underlying your anger is touching, my friend,” he murmured, managing something that vaguely resembled a smile. “I will do what I must, but if it comforts you, I swear on pain of death not to take unnecessary chances.”

Clarus watched him for an interminable moment, his disdain as unwavering as Regis’s resolve. It did not ease into his familiar humor or defeated frustration, however. Rather, he shook his head with the unwilling yet compliant appearance of one who was being led to the gallows.

“Let us hope that it is at _my_ hands and not those of another,” he eventually retorted, the lilting quality of his words ringing false. Regis jostled him slightly with a forced chuckle.

“I doubt anyone would be foolish enough to deny you the pleasure.”

That seemed to lighten Clarus’s mood somewhat, although his smirk was wry when he countered, “It is said that grief makes fools more readily than years.”

“A grief long buried, I should think,” Regis sighed, his hand dropping. “We may well find that he has quite recovered from his loss.”

He knew it was a lie the moment the words passed his lips. There was never any overcoming one’s grief—he was living evidence of that. In twelve years, he had lost both his wife and the honor of watching his little boy grow up under his own care; in the last four, he had nearly interred Noctis as well. Time did not make it any easier to smile, to straighten his shoulders, to pretend that the world could continue spinning without the sensation of motion feeling inherently _wrong_. Regis knew better than most that to lose someone dear was tantamount to cutting out a piece of your own heart and burying it where you would never again be able to find it. All you’d know was that it was decaying, eaten away by the passage of time like so much carrion. There were moments when you could forget your pain enough to wonder if it had ever truly happened, but they were fleeting. Before you could grow accustomed to the freedom from your eternal, terminal ailment, it returned with a vengeance to remind you that you would _never_ be rid of it.

Regis had discovered all this as an adult. He had experienced it in the later years of his life, when he was fortunate to have gained the support to carry on.

Ravus, on the other hand, had been but a child. Even now, having only recently come of age, he was hardly more than that. Younger kings than him had been crowned, but he bore a weight unique to his own circumstance.

And that circumstance could not abide forgiveness no matter how many years stood between them and the fateful day that had stolen Sylva from the world.

Whatever hope Clarus had harbored that Ravus would overlook their bloody history was misplaced; Regis could tell the moment the other king strode confidently into the throne room. His face was no longer that of a child, but of a grown man ready and willing to fight for what he believed. It was a shame that his visage was marred so thoroughly by the smug, contemptuous expression he wore. Such disdain had no place in peaceful negotiations.

But when had Regis ever known peace?

“King Ravus,” he greeted his guest, inclining his head from where he sat on his throne, “we are honored that you grace us with your presence.”

The corner of Ravus’s lips turned up in a defiant sneer, and Regis silently took note of the fact that he made no move to show deference to his host. Breaches of etiquette were by no means unexpected, not when he had been raised amidst the careless, irreverent scoundrels that had comprised Tenebrae’s administration since it shifted from kingdom to puppet state. Even so, Regis felt more than saw Clarus stiffen at his side and rested a hand against the arm of his seat in mute warning. It was far too soon to instigate petty arguments when they would doubtless have plenty of time for it later.

“We thank you for your hospitality, King Regis,” replied Ravus in a tone that easily contradicted his words. Regis elected to ignore it in favor of gesturing widely around the chamber.

“My retainers are all at your disposal should you require anything for the duration of your stay.”

The other king offered him a flippant shrug almost before he’d finished speaking. “That will be unnecessary. We do not wish to remain in Lucis for long.”

Finally, some minuscule hint as to Ravus’s purpose here. It could not be to spy: he had brought a small, practically inconsequential retinue of Tenebraen and imperial soldiers with him, none of whom had been allowed to stray from the vicinity unescorted. Perhaps more curious was that they had not _tried_. Regis had been informed that when they were made aware of the arrangements, there had been no argument or attempt at negotiation. Knowing now that they did not intend to stay in Lucis for any significant period of time confirmed his hopeful assumption, although it simultaneously spawned as many questions as answers.

If they would not linger, why had they come in the first place? What had been important enough to travel across the world for but a few minutes, perhaps hours, of conversation?

What was the empire playing at?

Swallowing his befuddlement, Regis inclined his head in respectful acknowledgement and recommended, “In that case, I would suggest that we proceed straight to business. I do not wish to delay you overlong, and the roads are perilous at night.”

“I _have_ heard of your troubles with the daemons wandering free,” Ravus asserted sharply—or maybe _accused_ was a more accurate term for the way he scoffed with a superior smirk.

_Oh, the foolishness of youth._

“Far from it,” Regis calmly contradicted him. “The Kingsglaive has made great strides in ensuring the safety of our people. I merely wish to avoid potential mishaps, unlikely though they may be.”

Ravus huffed something that could have been mistaken for a laugh if it had issued forth from anyone else. “Certainly, it would be an international scandal for a visiting monarch to meet with disaster in foreign territory.”

If the tone of the conversation had not been telling enough, that certainly solidified the reminder that Regis was not innocent in Ravus’s eyes. They had been dancing around the verbiage, playing at politics rather than engaging in any honest discussion on the matter, but there it was at last. The words themselves were more than enough to indicate where they stood on a personal level; if Regis thought he might convince himself that he was hearing what he expected and not the other king’s true meaning, he was quickly corrected when Ravus glared up at him with outright animosity. Gone were the masks of diplomacy, the forcing of pleasantries, and the testing of boundaries. With or without the empire on his side, Ravus was making it quite apparent that they were enemies—that they always had been, in his eyes, and that they always would be.

Given the opportunity, Regis knew that Clarus would have said something. He could sense it in the way his Shield’s stance shifted, a subtle yet definite transformation from casual observer to steadfast defender. Distantly, it struck him as rather amusing: it had not occurred to him in the time that they had been preparing for their guest that Ravus would be in more danger of injury _within_ the walls of the Citadel than outside of Insomnia.

The guilty pit that had opened in his chest refused to allow his Shield free reign to respond, however, even if it _was_ to defend his honor. After all, in this instance, he had no argument. There _had_ been a scandal twelve years prior, albeit one that centered around a treacherous mage rather than Regis himself. The other king had every right to harbor a hatred for him that ran deeper than the ties between their kingdoms once had. In a different life, maybe Regis would have been able to liberate Tenebrae from the clutches of imperial dominance; perhaps he would have had the opportunity to make things _better_ since there was no way to make them right. If he had fought harder, if he had forced his council to consider their options _further_ …

Those debates had long been abandoned, and Regis was not such a simpleton as to believe that reopening old wounds would make them any less impossible to heal. What was done was done: he was too late to save Tenebrae just as he was too late to salvage whatever professional relationship he might have had with Ravus if his ascension had been under different circumstances.

So, in the interests of at least avoiding another massacre of Tenebraen royalty on his watch, Regis spoke before Clarus could interject. “Indeed. It would be wise for us to exercise caution.”

That earned him one of the most sarcastic nods he’d ever witnessed, and not in the endearing manner that Aulea had when she would indicate that he was not thinking clearly. It gave Regis little incentive to extend their interactions; his skin was already crawling with equal measures of discomfort and suspicion.

Rising from his seat, Regis gestured towards the door and announced, “I have had a chamber arranged so that we may converse in a less formal setting. If you wo—”

“There is no need for that,” Ravus interrupted him with a careless wave of his hand.

It was all Regis could do not to bristle at the dismissal in his tone, so very unlike what he would have expected from a fellow monarch—so very unlike what he would have expected from _anyone_ , if he was being honest. He hated to assume that Ravus had not been trained for his position, yet the longer they spoke, the more he was beginning to realize that that appeared to be the case. There was simply too much _anger_ behind everything he did: his actions, his words, even his posture were all laced with it. No one had taught him that a king must set aside personal vendettas and put the needs of his nation before his own. No one had trained him to act with grace and dignity even in the face of a diplomat they believed to be their enemy. No one had educated him on proper protocol when meeting with foreign dignitaries, or at the very least they had not instilled in him the habit of adhering to it.

And why would they? The empire did not need a king in Tenebrae—all they required was the Oracle, not her brother. For eight years, they had kept her sequestered within the borders of the former kingdom; the sole news pertaining to her whereabouts that penetrated Niflheim’s intellectual blockade was that she had taken to her role and was healing anyone she could within the confines of her prison. Holding her hostage meant keeping a hand to the neck of the free world—what little remained of it, that was.

They had no use for her brother. There was no purpose for which they would deem him invaluable, unlike the heir to the Fleuret family’s divine blessings. To have kept him alive for so long, to allow such conflict in the line of succession, to have given him the throne when his control over his people must have been tenuous at best…

It was as though a curtain had been lifted, revealing an answer so simple that Regis thought it ridiculous that he hadn’t recognized it before. So determined had he been to offer Ravus what slight benefit of the doubt he was owed that he had overlooked the most obvious reason for his ascension.

The king whose mother had been stolen sought to intimidate the king whose son was constantly a blade away from suffering the same fate. This was the king that Regis could have become—might _still_ become.

They were more alike than Ravus knew.

Regis suspected that the latter was not aware of the purpose for which he was being used—that, or he simply did not care. This twenty-year-old puppet king, this dark foil of what Noctis would one day become if they were fortunate enough for their precautions to be successful, was meant as nothing more than a warning. A reminder. A _jest_.

The casual way he had of tossing badges bearing the Kingsglaive insignia to the floor on the dais below the throne was not what had Regis’s blood boiling. It was not the arrogant, hostile glare the other king aimed at him. It was not the nearly inaudible growl of his Shield, nor was it the chill in the air that hadn’t seemed to be there before. None of it brought Regis to this dangerous ledge, suspended above anger and hate for that which had plagued his steps and reign and nightmares for years.

No, Ravus was but a façade for a greater threat, one that was playing with him even now.

Ignorant of Regis’s thoughts, the empire’s puppet gestured harshly towards the offering he had thrown so carelessly at his feet. “It seems as though protecting your own was not the only priority you deemed worthy of the Kingsglaive.”

Decades of training stayed his tongue, but Regis could not help the decidedly glacial tone of his voice when he replied, “Lucis has ever made it a priority to assist our allies in their time of need.”

“Need that _you_  perceive,” Ravus countered automatically. “For eight years, you have invaded the sovereign territory of Tenebrae with your spies and thieves.”

“Sovereign?” Regis raised an eyebrow, ignoring the other preposterous accusations as precisely that: a farce.

Ravus remained undeterred, but it was clear that his inexperienced pride was wounded when he scoffed, “Authority over my kingdom rests solely in my hands.”

“Given to you by the grace of the emperor.”

“He cannot take what is rightfully mine,” he shot back, “as he is aware.”

“Indeed, your diplomatic skills are unparalleled. I do not doubt that he had no objections to the arrangement,” Regis remarked as he sank back into his seat, his compliment seeming genuine but for the irony of the situation. Either it was lost on Ravus or he chose to ignore it.

“You claim to be an ally, yet you were nowhere to be found when Niflheim marched on our borders. You claim that you wished to help us in our time of need, yet I do not remember hearing of what I am sure were your heroic efforts to liberate us from the forces that appropriated our lands,” he hissed indignantly, his expression turning quite ugly indeed. For the first time, he did not look like a young and untried king—he presented himself as a mere child. Regis may not have seen his son in twelve years, relying instead on the tales and videos and photographs that were relayed to him so that he might have the slightest chance of knowing him, but he had every confidence that Noctis had reached a higher level of maturity than this imposter that played at being a leader of men.

“And _you_ came all this way to bandy about petty accusations for matters that have long been settled?” retorted Clarus before Regis could stop him, not that he cared to try. Instead, he decided it was high time he cease allowing Ravus to speak to him like the common criminal he obviously believed him to be.

“An accurate assessment. I find it difficult to ascertain the need for an audience when you could have made your opinion quite clear in a formal decree.”

Glaring at them both in turn, Ravus haughtily proclaimed, “I confess, my reason for coming in person was twofold.”

“Perhaps that is where we should have begun, then,” Regis suggested, leaning back and gesturing for Ravus to get on with it. He had little patience for adolescent outbursts.

“I agree most strongly,” lilted Ravus, inclining his head in what would have been deference if it were not such a smarmy, sarcastic motion. “Let us be frank, then. Lucis will cease further exploits in Tenebrae under no uncertain terms. _Niflheim_ is our ally now, and as such, we will not tolerate foreign invaders who seek to harm the empire.”

_Have you consulted your sister on these matters?_

Those were the words Regis’s tongue craved to form. How pleasant it would have been to remind Ravus of his place: first in name yet second in value. How satisfying it would have been to see the way his face would fall as he unsuccessfully attempted to concoct an adequate retort that he hoped would send Regis reeling. What contentment it would give him to remind the imperial puppet suspended before him that his position, his so-called kingdom, his continued existence was all granted on the whim of a madman—as easily taken as given.

He said none of those things because, unlike his apparent adversary, Regis knew that there was a difference between constructive debate and inconsequential arguments. He was aware that to do so would be to create a mutual animosity that had no place in responsible diplomacy. Besides that, he could not entirely hold his views against him: what else was Ravus to think when he had been raised on whatever generosity the emperor was willing to give who he undoubtedly saw as an unwitting stooge?

That did not mean that he would abide disrespect, of course.

“The empire has been our enemy for longer than you or I have walked this earth,” Regis reminded him, utterly baffled that he ever could have forgotten. Ravus’s hatred for him may have run deep, yet he would have thought some small measure of enmity would have existed for the ones who had directly taken his mother’s life. “Our difficulties are not so easily assuaged as you seem to be suggesting.”

Ravus, however, was unbothered by the idea that his knowledge of complex international relations was a touch immature. He simply replied, “I suggest nothing. I _demand_ that the Kingsglaive avoid acting outside of their jurisdiction in the future. If you continue to send them as envoys in the shadows, then we will be forced to take action both against their person and the Lucian continent. Surely, you wish to avoid such conflict.”

There was hardly a need to clarify or argue—they both knew that to be the truth. Regis could see it in the way his lips were twitching with the triumph of his victory, albeit a small one.

“I am agreeable to your terms,” he began evenly, “so long as you realize that I _will_ act in defense of my people, whatever that might mean for the ties between our nations.”

“Your dealings with the empire do not concern me, only Tenebrae’s position as collateral,” retorted Ravus flatly. “You two may continue endeavoring to wipe each other off the face of the planet. I care not.”

_Well, what he lacks in tact, he makes up for in witty repartee. How very regal._

Rather than responding to the inconsequential barb of an imperial lackey, Regis prompted, “You claimed that you had another reason for requesting an audience.”

He half expected Ravus to contend that he was not finished waxing poetic about the supposed sovereignty of his kingdom, yet it appeared that he had little interest in continuing in that vein. Instead, he nodded with a perfunctory, “Quite. Now that my birthright has been restored to me, I had hoped to look upon the boy responsible for my premature inheritance. We will, after all, be neighbors in our respective reigns.”

For a moment, Regis was not sure he had heard him correctly. He _couldn’t_ have, not when the combination of his tone and his words transported him back twelve years to the same room with a very different opponent facing him. The similarities were startling, and Ravus _must_ have been aware of it, because his smirk was taunting rather than defiant this time.

So, he _did_ know his place on the empire’s game board. Fascinating—and horrifying.

Fortunately, it was his Shield’s duty to think for him should his mind fail him as utterly as it was now. Clarus could be a force of nature, a miracle in human form when he chose. This was one of those moments, and he stepped forward to answer for him when Regis’s silence lasted a beat too long.

“Prince Noctis is unfortunately unable to receive visitors at present,” he announced, making it inescapably clear that he would accept no argument or wheedling to the contrary. “Had we been aware of your intention to meet him in advance, we may have been able to accommodate you.”

A lie nestled comfortably within a truth, as many considerations tended to be where Noctis was involved. Regis did not contradict him, nor did he attempt to extend any vows he knew he would not or could not keep. Regardless of the curse and his son’s subsequent absence from the Citadel, he refused to allow his child to inhabit the same chamber as Ravus Nox Fleuret, not after the latter had all but expressly stated that Tenebrae was no longer a friend to Lucis.

Regis held out hope for the Oracle; she had proven over the years to be a valuable—albeit silent—ally. Ravus, on the other hand, was dangerous if for no other reason than the fact that he was all too willing to act as the empire’s puppet. In Regis’s experience, individuals who found themselves plagued by similar predicaments generally tended to believe that _they_ were the ones in control. Not once had he met anyone who was correct in that assessment of their own worth. Eventually, Ravus would pay dearly for allowing his bitterness to send him down this path, and Regis would gladly escort him to hell if it kept him from dragging Noctis alongside him.

If Ravus was bothered by his silence or his Shield’s denial of his second request, he gave no indication. His expression bordered on serene, unnervingly so, as he mused, “A pity. Some other time, then.”

“There will be plenty of other occasions,” Clarus replied a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary. Whether he was attempting to convince himself or Regis, he could not say. Still, a swell of gratitude erupted in his chest at the simplicity of his Shield’s conviction.

It was a comfort that evaporated as soon as Ravus agreed, “I am sure there will.”

 

***

 

_Running._

_It always started like that—running, but he never knew what from._

_Noctis sped down the corridor anyway, his shoes slapping noisily against the marble floor. Nothing around him was familiar: the grim passages with hardly any windows, the gold wallpaper that seemed almost black in the darkness around him, the little lights that didn’t illuminate much beyond where they were installed at intervals. He’d never been here before or seen anything like it, yet it didn’t feel strange to be sprinting along a hallway that seemed to go on forever._

_He knew that it didn’t, though. There_ was _an end, one that he’d found so many times that he could almost picture it—almost. Sensations stuck in his memory more than anything else, forcing him to run even though there was no one behind him; maybe there weren’t any footsteps to match his own, but the hair on his neck and arms stood on end with the unsetting awareness that he was being watched by something he couldn’t see. It just meant running through the same foreign corridors towards a destination that, like his invisible follower, was intangible at the best of times. This happened on each of his visits: he fled from the presence that stalked him towards a room whose image was never in his head when he reached for it. In that sense, it was like smelling something that he recognized but couldn’t quite put his finger on. All he could do was keep going, keep moving, keep_ running _until he got there and saw…_

_Something. He would know it when he reached the end of the road._

_And he would. He always did._

_There was never any explanation for how he’d gotten here, wherever_ here _was. Despite the fact that the whole thing should have made him more nervous than curious, Noctis could never bring himself to think too hard about the situation: it didn’t matter that he couldn’t remember arriving or that he assumed a big, fancy place like this should have been full of people he didn’t ever encounter. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice that sounded a lot like Ignis always sighed that he should probably care about those things, but he never did. In this place that he didn’t recognize, there were only two constants: he never felt as out of his element as he knew he was supposed to, and he never needed to ask for directions. The right path was ingrained in his memory, and he followed it without fail in his haste to be rid of whatever was following him. His heart knew the way._

_Past the elevators._

_Turn right._

_The fourth left._

_Down the hall._

_It led him to the same room, the one he couldn’t remember but wasn’t surprised to reach: a chamber so different from the halls that brought him to it that he wondered sometimes if it really_ was _in the same building. Where the corridor had been dark and gloomy, practically warning him away while simultaneously beckoning him forward, this room was all light. The ceiling was made of windows, and Noctis could only imagine how bright it would be in here during the day; there were never any stars on the nights he came to give him the slightest idea. As always, he found his view marred by the billowing clouds that neither dissipated nor barraged the glass with the rain they threatened. White marble walls stood in stark contrast to the blacks and golds of the entrance, and the pillars in each of the four corners were of a completely different style than the ones outside._

 _Whenever he came here, it was like he stepped through a portal to another world or another time—he didn’t know how to describe it as anything more than simply somewhere that was decidedly_ not _home. At home, there wouldn’t have been fancy tapestries hanging from the walls, telling a story he couldn’t understand. At home, his footsteps wouldn’t have echoed deafeningly off the tiles, a summons for whatever monsters were waiting in the shadows._

 _At home, there wouldn’t have been rows upon rows of swords hanging from the walls with their shadows somehow all pointing towards_ him _._

_There were so many, all different shapes and sizes. There were ones with sophisticated, expensive hilts that looked like they should have been art instead of weapons; others were simply tools for killing, meant to be dirtied with blood on a battlefield rather than sitting in storage awaiting use. Tiny daggers, giant broadswords, rapiers, hand-and-a-half swords—they were all gleaming in the moonlight that had no origin, creating a different kind of path._

_This time, he didn’t run. There was no need: whatever had been chasing him was gone, those searching eyes apparently blind now that he’d found safety here. Noctis could afford to wander through the glittering aisle that seemed to have formed just for him, his steps making a distant sound that didn’t feel real the further he went. Everything was a bit like that—the air appeared to shimmer, occasionally blotting out the room itself and leaving only the trail of metal leading him to the far side of the chamber. It was mesmerizing, haunting…_

_As was the sword waiting for him at the end of his road where it always was._

_This one was different from the rest, and it exuded an aura that reeled Noctis right in. Standing up close, it was easy to see what was so special about this sword: it was longer than all but the most impressive greatswords, gold ornamentation carved into the side of the blade and leading up to one of the most intricately designed sculptures Noctis had ever seen. There was silver laid into the handle, an elegantly carved guard to one side, and a pair of silver wings to the other. Admittedly, he didn’t know a whole lot about swords apart from what Gladio had taught him (which was a good bit even if Noctis didn’t understand half the things he said), but it didn’t take much for him to know that this sword was a step above the others—more than that. It was fit for a great warrior, maybe even a king._

_He had to touch it._

_Uncle Cid had always taught him that he shouldn’t so much as lay a finger on things that didn’t belong to him, but Noctis could never help himself here. No matter how often he stood in front of this particular sword—no matter how many times he forgot just so that he could return to the same situation once again—there was no controlling the sudden urge he had to reach out for the amazing weapon that would have had Gladio drooling. It wasn’t even that he was big on swords; Uncle Cid still didn’t let him have anything remotely resembling one, and after certain…events, he really didn’t want to hold a weapon anyway._

_But his hand rose regardless._

_It moved out in front of him._

_The sword seemed to sense his approach, because the blade began to glow a bright and penetrating blue…_

_Then there was a sharp pain in his chest and_ he woke up gasping for breath, scrambling out from beneath his covers. By the time he was awake enough to realize that he’d been dreaming, he was all the way across his room, huddled in the corner with his back pressed against the wall.

Again.

Noctis loved sleeping—naps were the best. This crazy place he kept visiting in the middle of the night was making it hard to get a whole lot, though.

At this point, he couldn’t begin to count how many times he’d had the same nightmare—if it could be called that. It wasn’t like the ones he’d had after… Well, after the bad things happened. _Those_ had been what everyone said nightmares were supposed to be: there were monsters, and no matter how far or fast he ran, they always caught him. The Dream Guardian would eventually charge in and help him when those visions got too intense, however, appearing in a flash of light so they could escape to a place where the daemons wouldn’t follow. They’d play there or talk about all kinds of things; sometimes they would just sleep, which had been fine by him. Once he’d gotten used to it, there was something comforting about having Carbuncle—the real one—curled up beside him like a warm, fluffy shield that didn’t let the monsters get close.  

These dreams were different. Carbuncle never saved him or popped in unexpectedly, and Noctis recalled enough to know that he’d never tried to summon him either. When he had these nightmares, it was as if he was on a track that there was no deviating from; the story was already written, and he was simply following along to the inevitable end. It wasn’t a matter of escaping anymore, just getting where his dream self always seemed to think he was meant to be.

Now that he was gradually clawing his way to full consciousness, though, he couldn’t remember the little details that had woken him. That was the same every time: all that remained was a niggling feeling at the back of his mind and a pain in his chest that his fingers tried to rub away without him even realizing it. A few minutes always passed before he noticed, and although the soreness hadn’t ebbed yet, he chalked it up to childish fear and forced his hand back down.

That didn’t make him feel much better.

He was too old to go running to Uncle Cid, though, and had been for a long time. He was _twelve_ , and twelve-year-olds figured this stuff out on their own. They didn’t get scared by nightmares they couldn’t entirely recall, nor did they jump at shadows and dive across the room to escape something that couldn’t chase him here. No, they pulled themselves together like grown-ups. Cor always said he was getting to be a young man these days, and as such, he should be able to deal with this.

He _should_ , but he simply couldn’t. Even though he was wide awake now, the few shadows that hid from his nightlight seemed to reach out for him as though they wanted to drag him back down that path to wherever it was he always ended up in those dreams. The sounds filtering in from outside—wind against the garage, the hunters’ trucks pulling in at the gas station, distant music from Takka’s—did nothing to calm him the way they normally would have. His nerves were still on high alert, waiting for the slightest provocation to send him running out of his room and down the hall like a baby or a wimp or any of the other things Gladio called him when he wanted Noctis to try harder in their games.

They wouldn’t win out this time, though. Noctis wasn’t going to wake Uncle Cid up in the middle of the night for something as stupid as this. He had to work in the morning, and he didn’t deserve to be kept awake all night on account of Noctis.

So, he did the only other thing he could think of. It wasn’t exactly ideal, not when he should have been able to tell himself it was just a dream and go back to bed on his own, but it was Noctis’s go-to solution when he either wasn’t sure who else to turn to or simply didn’t want to tell anyone. That was his ultimate goal, though; for now, he would stick to the strategy he’d been using for the last four years.

At least Ignis was nice enough not to sound like he’d been woken out of a sound sleep when he answered his phone with a quiet, “Another nightmare?”

Noctis didn’t reply, perching tentatively on the edge of his bed since he was still too unnerved to retreat under his covers yet. They’d gone through this often enough for Ignis to translate that as a _yes_.

“I assume you don’t remember it this time either?”

“Not really.”

There was a hum on the other end, then Noctis could hear the rustling of sheets and the click of a lamp. He’d never been to wherever it was Ignis lived, but he could picture it regardless: his friend sitting up in bed, grabbing his glasses, and settling them on his nose as he turned on the light in preparation for a long night of making Noctis feel better for something he shouldn’t have to. That mental image always made him feel even guiltier for calling—Ignis had school in the morning like he did, and Noctis was pretty sure that his lessons started a lot earlier. Crowe wasn’t averse to sleeping in a bit, so they always met in the afternoons. Ignis, on the other hand, was a notoriously early riser; he’d mentioned once that he got up at five _every day_ , which was just plain crazy as far as Noctis was concerned. Yeah, it could be tough to get sleep when his mind was too busy trying to remember what it was that it kept dreaming about and why it set him on edge, but that didn’t mean he was about to greet the day any earlier than absolutely necessary. If anything, his interrupted nights made him that much more determined to stay in bed as long as possible.

Not Ignis.

If he felt any bitterness at having become Noctis’s crutch when the monsters crept too close, however, he never said a word about it. He didn’t complain—not once—when Noctis called him in the middle of the night or texted when he should have been listening to something Crowe was saying or sent him pictures of stupid things that Ignis didn’t _really_ need to see (but he _did_ ).

Gladio was always there for him too, but there was stuff that Noctis just couldn’t bring himself to go to him about as they grew up. After all, he was fifteen now, and although three years hadn’t felt like such a long time when they were younger, it seemed an insurmountable gap these days. It was hard not to notice how tall Gladio had gotten or the way he’d started looking more like an adult, both things that Noctis was nowhere near old enough to do according to Uncle Cid. The kid he’d once thought was a bully now bragged that his instructors complimented him on increasing his muscle mass every time he weighed in, which Noctis assumed was referring to the bulk that had been puffing out his sleeves lately. Between all that and the dusting of hair that had begun to darken his chin, it was difficult sometimes for Noctis to see them as being on the same level the way he used to.

It wasn’t that way with Ignis, at least not yet. Where Gladio was big and strong and could handle _anything_ , Ignis understood that Noctis _never_ felt like that and didn’t think he ever would. So, unlike his cousin, he didn’t try to make him do things that he wasn’t comfortable with or knew were beyond his ability. Instead he offered advice Noctis could use, whereas Gladio’s answer to everything was usually beating the crap out of it. (Okay, so he was usually joking when he said that, but there was no denying that Ignis tended to have better ideas.)

The thought of going to Gladio with his nightmares? That made him feel the same as going to Uncle Cid would: like he should be able to do so much better.

Even though that persistent sensation of not being _enough_ refused to leave him alone no matter how hard he tried, it was just easier to let his muscles relax and his breathing even out when he had Ignis’s calming voice telling him, “Well, you’re awake now, so there’s no use dwelling on it. Perhaps you’ll remember next time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Noctis shrugged without much conviction. He didn’t really believe that, but he wasn’t in the mood for arguing about it. That wasn’t why he’d called.

As always, Ignis could practically hear his thoughts and graciously changed the subject to something they both knew from experience would provide a decent distraction: “Have you unlocked any of your warrior’s new abilities yet?”

“ _No_ , I _didn’t_ ,” whined Noctis, leaning back against his pillow with an irritated huff. It honestly didn’t surprise him in the slightest that Ignis would call him on the one thing he _still_ hadn’t managed to do. If it weren’t for how long they’d known each other, he would have wondered if his absent friend could read minds or something. That would explain how he frequently picked out either the right thing to say or the right button to push. Now _that_ , he _would_ complain about to Gladio.

When Ignis merely chuckled on the other end of the line, he muttered, “It keeps saying I’m missing materials, and I don’t have enough Zell anyway.”

“That might be because you have neglected to complete any missions.”

“No way! I did a couple yesterday!”

“A couple.”

Rolling his eyes, Noctis grumbled, “You’re the one who always says I should finish my homework first.”

There was a brief pause in which he could imagine Ignis nodding his head with that proud smile he always got when Noctis chose responsibility over fun. The only thing that kept him from being thoroughly disgusted by that was how much he knew Uncle Cid and Crowe agreed. For the three of them, he supposed he could give up a few nights of playing games to get some sleep, interrupted or not.

So, Noctis was momentarily stunned when it seemed that Ignis wasn’t going to adhere to his own strict set of rules regarding responsible behavior for a change. In a move that went completely against everything he stood for, he inquired, “Perhaps we could remedy your lack of attention to proper character improvement now?”

“It’s…” Noctis reached for his phone and unlocked the screen, wincing at the time. “It’s late, though…”

“Capital observation, Noct.”

Of _course_ he wasn’t about to admit to his own lapse in judgment. Well, they’d see about that.

“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Noctis prompted innocently.

“I do.”

“So do I.”

“I am aware.”

“And you wanna play anyway.”

Ignis’s exasperated sigh came through quite clearly before he retorted, “Well, we _are_ both awake. It seems a pity not to use our time wisely to make some progress if we can.”

Biting his lip, Noctis decided not to utter the sarcastic comment that was bubbling up in his throat: that this was just Ignis’s way of justifying what he would normally consider to be a poor decision. He was constantly issuing Noctis reminders not to go to bed too late when he had lessons the next day, knowing that he tended to stay up reading the comics Gladio brought him every month from Insomnia otherwise. The fact that _Ignis_ , of all people, was suggesting that they do the irresponsible thing just to make Noctis feel better after a nightmare? He could lay off of poking fun to show his gratitude.

For now.

The sentiment didn’t last long, not when his character kept dying while Ignis finished the battles single-handedly. If you asked _him_ , it was because he had _invested the appropriate amount of time and energy into ensuring that his playable characters were adequately prepared for the battle ahead_. If you asked _Noctis_ , he was just an overachiever. Gladio said so all the time, and so far, he hadn’t been wrong.

By the time they logged out and said their _goodnight_ s an hour later, Noctis was too frustrated and tired to read any more into his all but forgotten dream. The remnants of the fear and unease he’d felt when he woke up were still there, but his eyes were drooping against his will when he finally locked his screen and set his phone on the bedside table. As much as he didn’t want to risk landing himself in that nightmare again, Ignis was adamant that they’d been playing too long already; it wasn’t like he could argue when the sky outside was commencing its gradual shift from pitch black to the murky grey that came just before dawn. There were a few hours left until he would have to worry about going to school, so it wasn’t the end of the world, but…he _did_ need to sleep.

Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to do it alone. Ignis’s comforting reassurances were repeatedly playing through his mind as he slipped out of bed and padded over to the dresser. He didn’t usually sleep with Carbuncle anymore—there wasn’t a whole lot of room for both of them, and…okay, _maybe_ he was starting to get a _little_ embarrassed about it, not that he would ever say so out loud. On nights like tonight, though, he felt less ashamed to pluck his oldest friend from his perch and curl up with him under the covers. The real thing hadn’t helped him out, but who needed him? Between the fluffy companion in his arms and the phone on his nightstand—his link to all the people he cared about—he had everything he needed right here. They’d always be there for him, ready to pull Noctis out of his nightmares and remind him that everything was going to be okay.

Uncle Cid and Cindy.

Ignis and Gladio.

Carbuncle and the Dream Guardian.

Nyx and Cor.

With friends— _family_ —like his, dreams didn’t stand a chance. And really, what more could he possibly ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Square, for finally giving me enough about "King's Knight" to add some detail. :D


	15. Growing Pains

There was no reason for this to be so hard. Ignis could practically do it in his sleep, and even Gladio wasn’t so terrible anymore. Admittedly, he’d been known to subsist on microwavable instant noodles for weeks on end, but despite how much Ignis protested to the contrary, preparing them was technically still _cooking_.

Noctis, on the other hand, was quickly discovering that he liked food a lot more when someone else was making it _for_ him.

“Don’t stir so fast,” Nyx chided for the umpteenth time. “It’ll make air bubbles.”

Pausing, Noctis glanced at the back of his head and wondered, _How does he do that?!_

Seriously, it was unnerving. Nyx hadn’t stopped what he was doing at the stove to even _peek_ at Noctis’s technique. Maybe working at Takka’s for as long as he had was finally getting to him: he was becoming one with the diner and everything in it. That was the only logical explanation for how he was able to flip three burgers, toast six buns, _and_ tutor Noctis in the ancient art of stirring pancake batter all at the same time.

Well, that or he had eyes in the back of his head. Given how often he spotted things no normal human ever could, Noctis wouldn’t have been too surprised to find out that was the case.

“I’m _not_ stirring fast,” he argued without heat, keeping his voice low enough that their handful of customers wouldn’t hear him over the televisions.

If it were possible to _sense_ eyebrows going into orbit, Noctis thought Nyx’s would be a distant memory already. Even so, it was admirable that he didn’t sound as skeptical as he probably felt when he clarified, “So you’ve got no clumps _or_ bubbles.”

At that, Noctis turned to peer hesitantly into the metal bowl at his workstation and winced. Okay, so he hadn’t _quite_ done as well as he’d hoped: his whisk was covered in blobs of congealed flour, and tiny pockets of air were floating on the surface of the batter.

“Uh… It’s…getting there.”

Nyx hummed noncommittally. When Noctis shot him an irritated look, it was to find his _soon-to-be-former_ friend eyeing him with poorly concealed amusement. “Sounds promising.”

“They’ll be the best pancakes anyone in Hammerhead has ever tasted,” agreed Noctis, returning to his task. This time, he made sure he was stirring at the speed of a snail.

“Better than mine?”

“Yup.”

Scoffing, Nyx pointed out, “Not trying to brag or anything, but you’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill. Think you’re up for it?”

“Somehow, that doesn’t sound like much of a challenge,” Noctis mused sarcastically. Nyx’s bark of laughter brought a smile to his face.

“Then it looks like you’re on, little man.”

_Ugh, not this again…_

“ _Not_ so little anymore.”

“I think the guy who remembers when you were in diapers gets to be the judge of that.”

“And _that’s_ where I go back to stirring too fast,” mumbled Noctis, much to Nyx’s apparent entertainment.

Nothing new there: another day, another chance for him to get a chuckle at Noctis’s expense. He had to admit, one of the strangest things about his part-time job at Takka’s was being around Nyx so often; instead of the short conversations they’d been limited to on occasions when Noctis stopped by, they spent hours together now. Teasing aside, he couldn’t complain. Noctis loved that about his position, even if he wasn’t quite keen on the rest—working with food was simply better suited to someone like Ignis. For the time being, he just had to take what he could get, and he soldiered on regardless of how many botched batches of breakfast he’d thrown out.

Besides, it wasn’t as if he had any other options. The older he got, the more obvious it became that he was never going to grow into some latent mechanical prowess Uncle Cid might have been hoping for. He didn’t even bother helping at the garage anymore unless they were overwhelmed with customers, knowing it would likely end in messing something up that his uncle would then have to repair. He’d still wanted to contribute, though; it only seemed right now that he was fifteen. Uncle Cid gave him everything he could, and he’d never once mentioned the gil it cost him to raise two kids on his own. Sure, the garage did a damn good bit of business, but that didn’t mean Noctis should just sit around and be lazy. If the best he could do to pay his uncle back was work at a shitty diner (which was significantly less shitty than the convenience store, at least), then that was what he’d do.

Crowe had been the one to suggest it first, and Uncle Cid thought it was a pretty great idea when Noctis had mentioned it to him. After all, making food for people built character or something—that was what he said, anyway. Supposedly, it gave you a sense of pride to give people what they needed to survive.

Noctis had only been working at Takka’s for a few weeks, but so far, he wouldn’t exactly call it _pride_ that he left with every night. Sore feet? Grease stains on his clothes? The scent of fried food that he could never seem to get out of his hair? Yeah, he had plenty of that. Pride? Apparently, it had taken a rain check.

The one thing he looked forward to most was getting to hang out with Nyx. When the rest of his day was terrible, full of impatient customers or inadequate tips or food that wanted to burn no matter how hard he tried to save it, he could at least go home happy about that. It was always nice to have someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t judge him (or fire him) for his mistakes. Although his shifts tended to go a lot better than Noctis’s, Nyx had suffered the same rough start years ago and understood what it was like. In fact, he loved to regale him with tales of his earlier days at the diner, back when Noctis was a baby and Nyx just slightly older than he was now. Those stories usually made him feel a bit better about things—he couldn’t be a _total_ failure when someone he admired had gone through similar circumstances, right?

As a kid, he’d never considered asking how long Nyx had been working at Takka’s; it simply felt like he’d always been there since that was all Noctis had ever known. Now that he was older, he wasn’t sure he _could_ make it fifteen years the way Nyx had. Over a decade of burning himself on the stove, washing dishes until his hands were pruned, scrubbing floors covered in stuff he didn’t even want to _try_ identifying—all while serving rude people with a smile on his face? No, Noctis didn’t think he had the patience for that.

Nyx, however, had the fortitude of a god—maybe all six, come to think of it. But then, that was no surprise. Noctis had known he was just that awesome when he was a little kid; there was no way he’d ever reach the same level, especially not if it meant working at the diner for the rest of his life to get there.

He had no idea _what_ he wanted to do, but it definitely wasn’t _that_.

There was still plenty of time for him to figure it out, though. It didn’t feel that way, but after hearing platitudes to that effect from just about everybody in his life, he was finding it easier to fall back on that excuse. In moments where the uncertainty of his looming adulthood weighed down on his shoulders, Uncle Cid and Crowe in particular adamantly reminded him that he shouldn’t rush into making such an important decision; not thinking things through, they said, would only lead to regret later when he got stuck doing something he didn’t like. He knew they were right, and the idea of committing to one path forever _was_ pretty daunting, but…

It was stupid. He was well aware that it was stupid. Knowing that didn’t stop him from feeling like he was getting left behind.

It seemed that everyone else knew what they wanted and had goals in mind, whereas he was just getting by from day to day. As much as he loved his friends, he couldn’t escape those feelings of inadequacy in light of their accomplishments: Ignis had been training for some fancy advisement position in Insomnia practically his entire life and was basically a shoe-in to get it, from what Noctis could tell. Then there was Gladio, who had proudly joined the ranks of the Crown City’s most elite police force two years ago when he turned sixteen. Cindy had always known she was going to take over the garage someday, and Nyx was probably going to see his name in lights outside the building if he stuck around much longer.

Then there was Noctis—talentless, worthless Noctis.

Well, maybe that wasn’t the _entire_ truth. He wasn’t completely useless: he helped around the apartment and did well in his lessons. Ignis and Gladio must have thought he was worth something, because they still went out of their way to visit him every month; as a matter of fact, they’d taken to coming more often now that they were both old enough to drive. (Cor never let them take _his_ car, though, not even when Ignis was the one behind the wheel.) Noctis doubted they would go to all that trouble if he was the waste of space he sometimes thought he might be turning into.

No, for some reason, his friends cared about him regardless of his lack of direction. If they knew that he felt like he was stuck in limbo, waiting for something that didn’t seem ready to present itself to him yet, they were kind enough not to mention it.

Unlike them, Uncle Cid didn’t appear to know the meaning of the word _reservations_. For a while, it was like he had _Talking About Noctis’s Future_ penciled into his schedule; they’d had the same conversation almost every week. Eventually, Noctis learned how to keep his mouth shut and just smile when he sensed that the subject was about to rear its ugly head again. It undoubtedly did little to convince his uncle that things were magically better, but he must have realized it was a topic best set aside for now, because he hadn’t brought it up much lately. Despite the number of times Uncle Cid had warned him not to be in such a hurry to grow up, however, Noctis wished things would move a little quicker instead of his answers taking their sweet time. He wouldn’t say he was anywhere near as proactive as Ignis—that was practically impossible, after all—but he liked to know what he was doing and where he was going. Uncertainty left him with too much time to think, which usually led him down a rabbit hole he didn’t want to explore.

So, Noctis did what he could. He went to the diner every day, put on an apron, and let Nyx guide him through the process of figuring out how to make food that was actually edible. He tried to learn without complaining just in case this ended up turning into something that lasted a lot longer than he wanted, just as it had for Nyx. He slapped a smile on his face, did his best, and enjoyed every minute of the time he could spend with his friends when they were around. The Six knew that he was alone more than was probably good for him.

“You mix that any longer and you’ll be repaving the sidewalk with it,” Nyx teased, cutting through the thick haze of Noctis’s morose thoughts.

One of the other great things about working with him? It was like he had a sixth sense for when Noctis got stuck in his own head and swooped in to yank him out every time. At least he hadn’t been doing anything that required much concentration, which was generally his luck. Stirring too much never killed anyone; neglecting the stove was a recipe for disaster.

_...Great. I’m turning into Ignis._

Noctis rolled his eyes at himself and made a mental note to _never_ use that phrasing around his absent friend. Puns were great and all, but Ignis’s obsession with them was downright unhealthy.  

The same could probably be said for his batter, to be honest. There weren’t any air bubbles on the top, but he could already feel the congealed mess at the bottom of the bowl when he tried to remove his whisk. So, he’d added too much flour. Again.

Nyx could tell the moment he peeked over his shoulder, too. Where Uncle Cid would inform you that you’d messed up as soon as he realized it, Nyx simply patted him on the back with an encouraging smile and reassured him, “Better than last time.”

Sighing, Noctis abandoned the bowl on the counter and muttered, “That’s what you say every time.”

“And I _mean_ it every time,” he argued, tossing Noctis a dishtowel to wipe the residue off his hands. “Not everything’s going to be easy.”

He didn’t bother answering that. After all, he’d figured it out on numerous occasions since he started working at the diner. It was no big deal to say that fixing cars wasn’t his thing—plenty of people were the exact same way. If they weren’t, they’d save themselves the gil and do the repairs at home. This was different, though: Noctis had thought that if he tried hard enough, cooking would be a breeze. Ignis made it look so effortless; even when they were kids, he’d rarely struggled with a recipe. And how difficult could it be to mix together a few ingredients for pancakes, anyway?

Enough that Noctis couldn’t do it, apparently.

Nyx wouldn’t say that, though. He’d make him try again and again and _again_ until he got it right, which he probably would…eventually. For now, Nyx was content to pluck the towel Noctis hadn’t realized he was still clutching from his hands, nodding towards the bowl.

“Know what you did wrong?”

“Yeah. Too much flour.”

Grinning widely, Nyx proudly pointed out, “First step’s knowing your mistakes. We’ll give it another go tomorrow.”

“Just…not during the breakfast rush, right?” Noctis grimaced at the notion.

Oh, _that_ was a mistake. He could tell it was all in jest, but Nyx pretended to think about it as if he might _actually_ force Noctis to handle the front during their busiest time of day. He’d managed the lunch and dinner hours before with relative success, so he wasn’t as concerned about them. There was something special about breakfast, though; the slightest mistake that wouldn’t have seemed like such a big deal at any other time of day was suddenly massive and insurmountable in the morning. If Ignis was any example, then it was probably due to the lack of coffee most people were attempting to remedy as soon as they got out of bed and made it to the diner. It had taken only one morning shift for him to realize that burning that precious caffeine was tantamount to blasphemy, at least around here.

Needless to say, trial by fire? Not something he was all that enthusiastic about.

Fortunately, Nyx was nice enough not to even suggest such a thing. Instead, he shook his head and grabbed the bowl to dump its contents in the trash on his way back to the stove. “Give it another week and you’ll have it down.”

_Right, because the_ last _week’s gone so well_ , Noctis mused to himself. Nyx knew as well as he did that so far, he was better with meat than…well, basically everything else.

“Sure, we’ll go with that,” he replied instead, struggling to keep his disappointment from showing on his face. They didn’t have time to make a big deal out of wasting a batch of batter, especially when they were rapidly approaching the lunch hour and needed to get ready. He normally wouldn’t have worried about it, but two trucks full of hunters had pulled in at the garage not long ago, and they sure could pack it away when they were hungry. So, before Nyx had a chance to suggest something insane like trying again _now_ , Noctis asked, “You want me to grab the lunch stuff?”

“Probably a good idea,” he confirmed with a glance at the clock. It was almost like magic how he was somehow able to pull five perfectly formed burgers out of thin air, but Noctis wasn’t about to question it. He’d seen Nyx perform more miraculous feats over the years, so that was par for the course.

Keeping up was always challenge, and watching Nyx do basically _everything_ all at once brought back that whisper of _not enough_ in the back of his head, but he tried. It was getting easier with time, at least; the longer he kept at it, the more he found that some stuff just came naturally. Noctis already had a great memory, so taking orders was no sweat. Maybe he wasn’t as buff as Gladio or Nyx, but he could carry fairly heavy loads without help. He just needed more practice with the whole cooking thing. A _lot_ more practice.

…Scratch that. He just needed to hide Ignis behind the counter and let him do that part. He’d love it.

The lunch hour usually succeeded in making him feel a little less hopeless in the entire endeavor, though, probably because there wasn’t a lot to do. Nyx manned the grill most of the time (although that _was_ something he could manage on his own, thank you very much), while Noctis compiled the orders and made sure some of their staples never ran out: fries, drinks, bags of gysahl greens. He never understood why those nasty chips were so popular when they were _literally_ what chocobos ate, but as long as he wasn’t the one who had to eat them, then people could do what they wanted.

Today was no different. Noctis felt the frustration with his failed attempt at pancakes beginning to fade as he fell into the now familiar routine of making his rounds—customers to kitchen to customers in a never-ending loop. Ever since his first shift, he and Nyx had been almost eerily coordinated: by the time Noctis came back to pick up an order, Nyx had it ready and was waiting for the next. They never got in each other’s way, nor did they require words to communicate what needed to get done. It made the process a lot smoother, that was for sure.

In that regard, today _was_ different. They were only about halfway through serving the crowd that had come rushing in when someone decided to put the kibosh on their solid flow.

“Dude, you’ve gotta be kidding me!” the blond guy at the counter groaned, dropping his face into his hands in a way that Noctis thought was a _touch_ dramatic.

Nyx apparently agreed, because his expression was hovering somewhere between sympathetic and annoyed when he replied, “Afraid not.”

Raising his head, the guy pleaded, “Come on, not even just a couple hours a week? I’m not picky! I’ll sweep floors, clean the bathrooms—which is totally gross, but somebody’s gotta do it! Ooh—what about your advertising?! Every good restaurant needs something to drum up business, right?”

It was a good thing Noctis was in the middle of jotting down an order; otherwise, he would have laughed at that. If they _drummed up_ any more business, they’d need to use the caravan for overflow seating. It was already standing room only!

“Listen, kid, I’m sorry,” Nyx sighed absently as he dropped two plates on the counter for Noctis to grab when he came back around. “We haven’t got any open positions.”

“But look how busy it is, and there are only two of you!”

He could say that again. As far as Noctis was concerned, it wouldn’t be so bad to have another pair of hands around here during their busy hours. He could understand why Takka didn’t bother, though: it wasn’t like they were constantly swamped the way he imagined restaurants in Lestallum or Insomnia were. On average, their current staffing was more than enough—sometimes it was even a stretch to have two people working. Hammerhead was still the tiny outpost Noctis had always known it to be, and it didn’t look like that was about to change soon.  

As such, and as the only person Takka trusted besides himself to make business decisions, Nyx shrugged a shoulder and explained, “We just filled our last open position a few weeks ago. Maybe you could try something out in Duscae. There’s plenty to go around.”

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say. The guy collapsed forward and let his head fall to the counter with a dull _thump_. From the looks of things, it was nothing more than sheer pity that kept Nyx from shoving his oily face off the surface Noctis had _just_ cleaned half an hour ago.

“I already looked out there,” he whined at the floor, his voice muffled by the angle. Nyx threw Noctis an exasperated glance as he plucked the next ticket out of his hand and replaced it with a finished order.

“You’re telling me there wasn’t _one_ job in all of Duscae that you were qualified for?” he inquired impatiently.

Noctis was pretty sure he stopped just short of asking why the hell this guy thought his chances would be better in Hammerhead. When it came to that sort of thing, Nyx was a lot like Uncle Cid, although he’d hate to hear it. Neither of them had much tolerance for incompetence or wasting time, not when they were on the clock. For as long as Noctis could remember, there had only ever been one exception to that rule: they’d both been more than willing to drop what they were doing and entertain Noctis when he was a kid. Other than him, though, there wasn’t room for nonsense. If this guy really _had_ gone to every outpost between here and Lestallum looking for work and hadn’t found something yet? Well, that was probably a good indicator of what he’d be good for.

Not that Noctis could say much, of course. In fact, as he dropped off his delivery and grabbed another order on his way back to the counter, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt. _He_ wasn’t what anyone would call the perfect employee; there were a lot of things he didn’t know how to do, but he’d gotten this job regardless. It wasn’t because he knew how to cook, or that he was good at anything in particular—he didn’t even have any experience. He’d gotten this job because he grew up in Hammerhead. He’d gotten this job because Uncle Cid was that understated kind of famous where everyone wanted him to work on their cars but he didn’t bother flaunting it, something Noctis hadn’t realized until he was older. He’d gotten this job because Takka and Nyx knew him and were willing to take a chance.

He’d gotten this job because he was _lucky_. Who was to say that things would have ended up the same if he’d been like this guy, hunting around for work in places where people didn’t know his name?

Nyx already had the next pair of plates ready when he returned, but Noctis paused, frowning at where their overdramatic guest was still attempting to commune with the floor tiles. He only felt worse when he noticed that they probably weren’t too far off in age. Come to think of it, he had no idea what another fifteen-year-old would be doing out in the middle of nowhere on his own, looking for a job of all things. Uncle Cid would _never_ let him leave Hammerhead alone; Noctis hadn’t really asked, not even to go for a ride with Ignis and Gladio, but he knew that much.

Was he in some kind of trouble? Had he been kicked out? Did he run away? Did he even _have_ any family?

For all Noctis knew, they were the same: two outcasts who didn’t know where they came from. That had never meant a great deal to Noctis, not as a kid and definitely not now. It had been so long since those thoughts bothered him that he could barely remember a time when he hadn’t been completely satisfied with things just the way they were. He had a family and friends that loved him; Uncle Cid might as well be his dad since he’d never known anything else.

Maybe this guy didn’t have that. Noctis was well aware that not everyone was as fortunate as him—Crowe and Ignis had read him too many stories over the years for him to believe otherwise.

It must have been a combination of that realization and his own guilt at having acquired a job he hadn’t actually _earned_ that made him abandon his post to dart out the door after the guy when he left almost unnoticed a few minutes later. Catching up wasn’t too hard when the latter was trudging along like he wished the ground would turn into quicksand and drag him into oblivion.

“Hey!”

He paused, whirling around with a hopeful expression that fell a bit when he seemed to realize Noctis wasn’t Nyx on his way to say he’d changed his mind. That would never happen, though. Nyx was a good guy, but he was also realistic; you could count on getting the truth from him, although Noctis had to admit that he sugarcoated a few things for _his_ benefit when it came to his cooking ability.

This guy didn’t know that, however, so Noctis wouldn’t hold his ignorance against him. He already looked enough like a kicked chocobo as it was when he morosely muttered, “Yeah?”

“Uh…” Noctis paused, suddenly concluding that this was a _lot_ easier in his head. Working at the diner forced him to be social, but when it came to interacting with strangers on a personal level, he usually tended to let other people do the talking.

Still, there was no going back even if he already sort of regretted coming out here in the first place. If he didn’t start saying something soon, the guy was going to walk away thinking he’d lost a job opportunity to someone with brain damage. _Just spit it out._

“You any good with cars?”

“W-With…” The guy frowned, shaking his head uncomprehendingly. “With cars?”

_Okay, maybe it’s not just me._

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Noctis instead folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “Yeah. Fixing them, working on them—stuff like that. You any good?”

“I, uh…guess?” He scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “I mean, I can fix some stuff. I’m no expert or anything!”

Noctis waved him off with a swift, “You don’t have to be. Anyway, my uncle runs the garage. If you know your way around a car, maybe I can put in a good word for you.”

It wasn’t exaggerating to say that the guy’s eyes bulged out of his head, and he looked between Noctis and Uncle Cid’s shop with an excited, “Dude, are you serious?!”

The unmitigated gratitude for something Noctis hadn’t even delivered yet had him opting to watch his shoe as he kicked at a chunk of dirt and tentatively replied, “Yeah. _If_ you’ve got what it takes, anyway. My uncle’s…kinda picky.”

_That_ was certainly one way to put it. Another would have been to say that Uncle Cid never considered taking on employees besides Cindy because he constantly complained that good help was hard to come by. Of course, given the fact that his uncle was one of the best mechanics in all of Lucis (objectively speaking), he’d earned the right to make that call. So, it was more than a little optimistic to think that he would give this guy the time of day let alone a job. If all Noctis could wrangle him was something temporary like cleaning up the shop when his uncle closed for the day, it would still be worth it. There was no use in pointing out that that was very likely _all_ he could expect, if that.

His halfhearted warning didn’t put a damper on the new guy’s recovering spirits; if anything, it looked as though he might just start floating with glee. Noctis doubted he deserved his enthusiastic, “You’re the _best_ , man! I’ll knock his socks off—just you wait and see!”

Fortunately, they were both going to have to. Noctis had already ditched Nyx long enough, and it wasn’t like he had any other reassurances to offer. What he’d already promised was more than what he should have—there was _no way_ Uncle Cid was going to go for this.

It was unbearable to exchange names with _Prompto—Prompto Argentum_ and agree to meet him at the convenience store in a couple of hours when his shift ended. It was even worse to retreat inside and find Nyx watching him with a suspicious, tortured expression that he knew had nothing to do with having left him in the middle of the lunch rush.

But he _refused_ to feel bad for trying. Even though his stomach was jumbled up for the rest of the day, even though his mind plagued him with all the various ways his uncle could tell Prompto _no_ , Noctis kept reminding himself that he was doing the right thing. Ignis had always said that _who_ you knew was just as important as _what_ you knew in a lot of cases, and Noctis happened to know more people around here than their wayward visitor. It was simple logic: not everyone was as fortunate as him, so there was no way they could hold it against him for trying to pay it forward.

_...Right?_

 

***

 

“You did _what_?”

Noctis flinched at the pure disbelief in Uncle Cid’s exclamation. It wasn’t the angry shout that he remembered from when he was a kid and did something he wasn’t supposed to, but that didn’t mean it was good either. Admittedly, he’d known that this wasn’t going to be the easiest conversation in the world before he’d opened his mouth; it wasn’t like his uncle held the door open for people looking for work. This was a _family_ business, and as much as he might complain about being overworked some days, there was no arguing that he was happy to keep things between himself and Cindy. Inviting an outsider seemed wrong even to Noctis, and he’d been well aware that Uncle Cid wouldn’t so much as consider the possibility of hiring one on without a fight. Not even Noctis’s most innocent, pleading expression could cut through the wall he already sensed his uncle building between his ears and Noctis’s mouth.

“You always say how you could use more help around here,” he replied with a shrug he hoped appeared more nonchalant than he felt. Uncle Cid’s grunt of irritation made his shoulders slump slightly.

“Don’t mean I want you goin’ ‘round offerin’ jobs to folks.”

“I didn’t offer him a job.”

Snorting derisively, his uncle nodded towards where Prompto was pacing excitedly outside the garage. “Boy’s bouncier ‘n’ a bald spare.”

“I told him not to get his hopes up,” evaded Noctis. That much was true: when they’d met at the convenience store after his shift, he’d been very clear about what it was Prompto would be getting himself into. …Well, he’d tried to find a nicer way of saying that Cindy was more likely to attend a ladies’ etiquette school than Uncle Cid was to agree to this, anyway. Subtlety apparently wasn’t this guy’s strong suit, though, because it was like his warnings had gone in one ear and out the other.

“I _totally_ got this!” Prompto had repeatedly assured him with a huge grin, following along to the garage as though he was walking on clouds.

The best argument Noctis had been able to come up with was, “Maybe you should meet him first.”  

Now that they were here and his uncle looked like he might chase Prompto off without even bothering to exchange introductions, that little voice in the back of Noctis’s head whispered for the hundredth time that this had been a terrible idea. Why did it always seem like he just messed things up whenever he tried to do what was right? Uncle Cid _could_ use the help if for no other reason than his back ached more than it used to and his fingers trembled in a way they never had before; Prompto definitely needed to find a job, and it didn’t seem that anyone else would be offering much for him to take. Under normal circumstances, anyone would have thought that he was doing both of them a favor by pointing out that their needs made them a perfect match.

Instead, Uncle Cid was put out and Prompto was anxiously anticipating what was never going to happen, at least not in Hammerhead. The latter had already been devastated enough with not being able to get his foot in the door at Takka’s; if he couldn’t garner even a few minutes of Uncle Cid’s time, that would be the nail in the proverbial coffin, as Ignis liked to say.

When was Noctis going to get it through his thick head that helping out was bound to land him in trouble?

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because his uncle surveyed him carefully for a moment before sighing in what Noctis recognized as defeat. That didn’t happen often—he usually stuck to his guns so adamantly that even _Cor_ was easier to crack some days. When Noctis looked up, however, it was to find Uncle Cid watching him with an expression of mingled exasperation and affection.

“Always gotta bring home the strays,” he muttered with another glance at Prompto, who seemed to be doing his level best to wear a hole in the concrete. “All right. Got a carburetor needs fixin’. If he can do that, then _maybe_ I’ll _consider_ lettin’ ‘im stay on for a spell.”

“Really?!” exclaimed Noctis before immediately reeling in his surprise. The last thing he wanted to do was prompt Uncle Cid to change his mind by making too big a deal out of the whole thing—or, even worse, give him the impression that he _had_ to do this just to spare Noctis’s feelings.

As always, he didn’t fall for it—not for one second.

“ _Only_ for a couple weeks till he’s got somethin’ else,” he warned. To emphasize his point, he stuck a finger in Noctis’s face as if daring him to ask for more.

Raising his hands in surrender, Noctis agreed, “Right. It’s just temporary."

“You’re darn tootin’. I ain’t runnin’ a charity here. Can’t go handin’ out jobs to everybody who comes knockin’. Kid don’t even look old enough to be wanderin’ around in places where he ain’t never been ‘fore.”

Noctis listened in silence as Uncle Cid rambled on, knowing better than to say anything that might give him reason to rescind his offer. None of it was anything he hadn’t already considered or that Nyx hadn’t spoken about at length when he returned from his impromptu break. In fact, it was a good thing Nyx liked him, or else there would have been hell to pay for that little maneuver. As it was, they were still friends, and he couldn’t really hold it against Noctis when he found out why it was that he’d disappeared. He _had_ looked just as prepared to beat himself over the head with a spatula in vexation as Uncle Cid, but he hadn’t said a word except to wonder how Prompto had ended up in Hammerhead at all.

In Noctis’s opinion, that part didn’t matter much. The important thing was that he needed help, and no one else was likely to give it to him. This was more of a patch than a fix, if he was being honest; Prompto proving himself didn’t change the reality that he would still need to find somewhere else to go before Uncle Cid got tired enough of him to lay him off. Regardless, it was more than he’d managed to find thus far, so that had to count for something. There was no harm in helping Prompto take a step in the right direction if his uncle was willing to give it a shot, right?

It looked like the jury was out on that one. Uncle Cid grumbled a bit under his breath as he led the way outside with his most intimidating glare firmly in place. It was jarringly different from how he acted with impatient customers who dared to treat Noctis or Cindy with less than the utmost respect. Noctis wasn’t familiar with this version of his uncle: if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was watching Cor approach Prompto instead. According to the two of them, they’d been friends since long before Noctis was even born, but he didn’t remember them ever explaining where it was they’d met. All of a sudden, he found that curious little flame in the pit of his stomach beginning to kindle again with the thought that maybe Uncle Cid hadn’t _always_ been a simple mechanic as he claimed.

Prompto may not have known any of that, but he definitely sensed that he wasn’t quite as welcome as he’d apparently been expecting. The grin slid off his face so fast that Noctis wondered whether it had all been for show—a parody of confidence that he hadn’t really felt. He knew all about that.

“You the kid who’s lookin’ for a job?” Uncle Cid demanded in a hard tone he usually reserved for his pushier customers. Prompto’s throat moved when he swallowed hard in what Noctis assumed was exactly the brand of trepidation his uncle was attempting to incite.

“Y-Y-Yes, sir!” he squeaked in response, immediately standing at attention. The sight would have been comical any other time.

Narrowing his eyes, Uncle Cid jerked his chin towards the garage and brusquely observed, “I ain’t got much need for nobody else.” When Prompto’s shoulders drooped with the same distress as earlier, he continued, “You prove to me I ain’t gonna regret it, and I’ll letcha lend a hand ‘round here for a while.”

There was a beat of silence where Prompto didn’t seem to understand a word of what Uncle Cid had said to him. He simply stood there, blinking uncomprehendingly as if they spoke completely different languages. As soon as realization dawned on him, however, his face split into a wide grin as he leapt forward to grab Uncle Cid’s hand and shake it. Noctis bit down hard on his lip to avoid laughing at the way his uncle nearly fell over with the force of Prompto’s enthusiasm.

“Definitely, sir! You got it, sir! I can do whatever you need, sir!”

Grimacing, Uncle Cid shook him off with an annoyed, “Cut the _sir_ shit. And I didn’t say I was just gonna _give_ you the job. You gotta earn it.”

That didn’t defuse Prompto’s excitement at all. If it were possible, he emoted even _harder_.

“Whatever it is, just leave it to me!”

“Sure,” mumbled Uncle Cid. He motioned impatiently for Prompto to follow him and retreated inside the garage, gingerly massaging the hand that Prompto appeared to have wrung the life out of.

Before Noctis could take more than two steps after him, an arm landed around his shoulders and nearly yanked him off balance as Prompto whispered, “Dude, you’re the _best_!”

“You don’t even have the job yet,” muttered Noctis in reply.

If Prompto was at all concerned about his chances, however, he refused to show it. Rather, Noctis thought he could have recited his response in a perfect imitation of his earlier self-assurance: “I got this!”

And, oddly enough…he kind of _did_.

Noctis had absolutely no idea what the hell Prompto was doing and could only watch in silence when Uncle Cid set him up with one of the cars currently sitting inside the garage—if it could be called that. In reality, it was more like he pointed, grunted, and muttered something about that carburetor he’d mentioned before.

For his part, Prompto took it in stride: it didn’t seem to trouble him that he was very obviously a behemoth in the stable, intruding on a sacred space that was reserved only for the three of them. Where Noctis’s understanding of the garage amounted to very little, however, Prompto was a natural. The second his hands slipped underneath the hood, he took charge with an air of confidence that Noctis had only ever witnessed from his uncle before. He was unscrewing bolts and twisting…things, and…and…

Noctis really had no clue.

Uncle Cid _did_ , though, and _he_ looked impressed. _More_ than impressed—Noctis was pretty sure his jaw was about to collide with the floor as he stood to the side and watched Prompto work. Clearly, he hadn’t been anticipating Prompto to have any of the talent he’d claimed, not that Noctis had either. He’d wanted to believe the best, of course, but most people resorted to exaggeration and outright duplicity when they were after a job. Ignis had taught him enough to know that much, even if Noctis’s position _had_ been a breeze to get.

It didn’t take experience to know that Prompto really _did_ have this the way he’d repeatedly boasted. If it were Noctis, he would have stopped constantly to double- and triple-check that he hadn’t done anything wrong; there was no way he could have kept his eyes on what he was doing instead of Uncle Cid’s shocked expression, that was for sure. Prompto managed both, faltering just once when Cindy came downstairs to work on an old rust bucket that the owner insisted was an antique. With the exception of her obvious curiosity at finding a stranger doing what Uncle Cid was supposed to, Cindy took no notice of him. The only indication that anything had changed was a loud _clang_ when Prompto glanced up at her, but he righted himself immediately and went straight back to the task at hand.

His momentary distraction didn’t appear to dock him any points in Uncle Cid’s book. In fact, he stepped forward to inspect the engine as soon as Prompto finished and appeared to be at a loss for words for the first time Noctis could remember. It was all he could do not to laugh when Prompto met his eyes over his uncle’s bent back and shot him two excited thumbs up.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” muttered Uncle Cid, shaking his head. Prompto quickly dropped his arms back to his sides before he turned to demand, “Where the hell’d you learn that?”

Shrugging, Prompto vaguely answered, “Oh, y’know, here and there. Gotta do something to earn a few gil on the road, right?”

Uncle Cid snorted. “Hands like them, you could earn more’n that. Ain’t seen nobody put an engine back together that fast since Cindy done it as a young’un.”

At that, Prompto glanced over at Cindy with wide eyes, not that she bothered to return his gaze. She was too busy refilling an antifreeze tank without using a funnel—which would have ended in disaster if Noctis had tried. That didn’t deter him, though; Prompto simply nodded, his mouth hanging open just a little.

“Y-Yeah, I’m sure she’s…really something.”

“Sure is,” beamed Uncle Cid proudly. A moment later, he seemed to remember what it was he’d promised, and his mouth straightened into a hard line. Noctis could tell it cost him something to grudgingly grunt, “All right, a deal’s a deal.”

“You mean I got the job?!” asked Prompto, his head whipping back around. Uncle Cid’s frown deepened in the face of his excitement.

“Just for a few weeks,” he repeated, although Prompto seemed to hear something entirely different. Instead of taking a chill pill and putting his feet back on the ground, he launched straight up into the atmosphere with a triumphant whoop.

“I swear, you are _not_ gonna regret this!”

Noctis barely made out his uncle grumbling under his breath, “I’d better not,” before the latter continued louder, “You can start tomorrow, but it ain’t gonna be many hours. Cindy ‘n’ I do just fine on our own. I’ll throw anythin’ else your way.”

Prompto practically stumbled over himself to reply, “I totally understand! I’m just… This is, like, _so_ awesome!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Uncle Cid waved him off, already heading towards the stairs to the apartment. “You keep on grinnin’ like that, your face’ll get stuck that way.”

“Could be worse!” Prompto called after him in a singsong voice that Noctis was pretty sure made his uncle’s shoulders tense up in mute annoyance.

If it were anyone else, he probably would have said something about them being _way_ too happy for their own good—he made similar remarks about Sania when she came to the outpost for her biannual inspections, although he didn’t use the word _happy_. Whether he was respecting Prompto’s elation at having finally caught a break or the fact that Noctis was the one who had set this up in the first place, he held back this time. Raining on Prompto’s parade at this point would have been cruel no matter how obnoxious his _seriously_ unsettling grin was growing.

Of course, Prompto didn’t know Uncle Cid the way Noctis did. He didn’t realize just how big a deal it was that he’d gotten this chance to begin with, nor was he aware of the fact that he was treading on thin ice. No, he had to go and say the _one thing_ that Noctis _knew_ would grate on his uncle even more.

“So, uh… Don’t suppose you guys know if there’s anywhere to stay around here, do you?”

_Oh, shit._

There wasn’t enough time to shake his head or anything else that might stop Prompto in his tracks before Uncle Cid halted in _his_. The latter had his foot on the first step when he froze in place, his head turning to the side. From what little Noctis could see of his face, he knew that he owed his uncle a _very_ special birthday present. For the next thirty years. At least.

“You mean to tell me you came here lookin’ for a job when you ain’t got nowhere to stay?” he ground out, finally looking back at his new employee with an utterly baffled expression. Prompto shrugged bashfully.

“Uh…kinda?”

“The hell you thinkin’, son?”

Poking at the swoop of his perfectly coifed hair and looking _anywhere_ else but the three pairs of eyes currently scrutinizing him (even Cindy couldn’t ignore what was going on now), Prompto simply murmured, “Figured I’d take care of that when I found something. It wasn’t worth wasting gil on a place if I didn’t have a job to go with it.”

Uncle Cid frowned. “Where you been stayin’ all this time?”

To that, Prompto had no answer. Instead he scuffed his shoe against the floor and muttered something Noctis couldn’t make out. It wasn’t difficult to predict what he meant, though, especially not after having heard what he told Nyx about his job hunt in Duscae. If he’d wandered all the way across Lucis, there was no way he had the funds to stay in a hotel every night; it would have been way too expensive, and that wasn’t even mentioning any food or other travel expenses.

_How did he get_ this _far?_ Noctis wondered silently with a frown. If it were Ignis or Gladio, he wouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, Ignis could turn two gil into a three-course meal with some to spare, and Gladio liked camping enough that he wouldn’t have bothered with hotel rooms anyway. This guy? Well, Noctis didn’t want to judge when he hardly knew anything about him, but Prompto didn’t really strike him as that kind of person.

And Uncle Cid, for all that he would argue the opposite, wasn’t the kind of person to leave someone out in the cold, so to speak.

Which was how the room in the back of the garage where he stored all the spare parts ended up transforming into a makeshift bedroom— _temporarily_ , he reiterated no less than fifty-seven times. (Noctis had been keeping a mental tally.) He didn’t go out of his way or anything; other than a sleeping bag and some hygienic essentials, he didn’t provide much at all. Still, the way Prompto reacted, Noctis would have thought that his uncle offered to put him up in a luxury suite for the duration of his stay in Hammerhead.

His fervor fortunately didn’t waver when he discovered that generosity came at a price. Uncle Cid wasn’t dumb enough to provide accommodations unconditionally, especially not when they were dealing with a veritable stranger. Seemingly harmless or not, no amount of kindness would change the fact that Prompto was from outside their circle of trusted friends. If he had a problem with the rules, Uncle Cid made it very clear that he could beg for work elsewhere.

In a show of great intelligence, not once did Prompto complain about the conditions of his stay—not when Uncle Cid told him that he’d be sleeping outside if he came back after the doors were locked for the night, not when he indicated that the apartment was strictly off limits if he wasn’t accompanied, not even when he said that rent for the room would come out of his pay. The promise of Nyx getting involved if he even _thought_ about pocketing so much as a bolt was enough to dissuade any sensible person, but as far as Noctis could tell, it was an unnecessary threat. Prompto was amenable to all of it without debate or negotiation, even going so far as to offer his thanks after almost every word.

If it seemed like he was showering Uncle Cid with gratitude for his kindness, however, it was _nothing_ compared to his apparent admiration for Noctis.

“Dude, seriously,” he insisted _again_ as they wandered towards Takka’s to pick up dinner, “you are the literal _best_!”

“It was nothing,” Noctis muttered, hands in his pockets and desperately wishing the ground would simply swallow him whole. With how this day was going, Prompto would probably dive in and drag him back to the surface. As there was no need for that just yet, the latter could only scoff.

“Sure, to _you_ maybe. You have no idea how much it sucks to sleep in a bush, man. Like, there are _bugs_.”

Nodding, he pointed out, “Pretty sure that’s an _outside_ thing.”

“ _Big_ bugs,” Prompto amended as if it made a difference. Noctis fought very hard against the urge to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, they’re the worst.”

“You said it, buddy. Ooh! No! There was this one time—I was out near Cauthess, right? So, this wild garula just charges _straight. At. Me_. I wasn’t even doing anything!”

“Sounds scary,” Noctis sighed listlessly, humming in sympathy when Prompto continued to rant about how this wild animal ostensibly thought he was trying to move in on its grazing land.

To most people, that would probably be terrifying, but Noctis couldn’t help thinking that there were worse things in the world that he could have run into. Frightening creatures roamed beyond the limits of the outpost that Noctis had only ever seen in books, and he agreed that meeting them wasn’t something he wanted to experience firsthand.

All of it still paled in comparison to daemons.

According to Cor, there weren’t as many of them now as there used to be; the king had supposedly taken a hard stance on eradicating as many as possible a few years ago. His nightmares didn’t care about any of that, though. Nights remained where Noctis’s mind took him back to that place he couldn’t run from and the phantoms that refused to let him go without a fight he was destined to lose. If Prompto had seen a daemon, he wouldn’t bother complaining about the rest of the wildlife that frequented what was popularly referred to as _the outdoors_.

“Hell _oooo_ , earth to Noctis!”

Prompto’s voice startled him from his musings, and Noctis realized for the first time that they’d come to a stop outside the diner. If the former’s half confused, half concerned smile was any indication, he figured they must have been standing there for longer than was probably normal.

“What?” he asked, clearing his throat in mild embarrassment at his distraction.

The taunts he predicted never came. Rather, Prompto shoved a camera under his nose and wheedled, “I _said_ , we should totally take a selfie together!”

Noctis blinked at him. “W-Why?”

“To preserve the memory!” he groaned as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. To Noctis, it was the exact opposite.

“What memory?”

“Uh, the one where you got me, like, the best job in the history of jobs and won my eternal gratitude?”

Shaking his head, Noctis replied, “It’s not that big a deal. And besides, I’m…not really into pictures.”

At least, not pictures with people who were as good as strangers. He wasn’t about to tell Prompto that, but Noctis would be lying if he said he wasn’t thinking it. There were tons of photographs of him around the garage—growing up with Cindy, playing with Ignis and Gladio, sitting on Nyx’s lap after his injury, working with Crowe on his reading and Cor on his math. Getting through the apartment and out the front door was like treading down memory lane; on some walls, there wasn’t any room to hang more. For a guy who pretended to hate _sentimental bullshit_ , Uncle Cid sure was fond of documenting their lives.

Prompto wasn’t _part_ of his life, though. He was some guy Noctis helped because it was the right thing to do. They didn’t need to take a picture to commemorate it.

Well, _Noctis_ didn’t.

“Come _on_ , man!” Prompto whined, throwing an arm around his shoulder and giving him a good shake. “Just one! Promise, I’ll only get your good side.”

Noctis didn’t bother correcting his assumption that _appearances_ were behind his reluctance. It really wasn’t worth it when Uncle Cid and Cindy were waiting on them to return with dinner. He’d asked enough of his uncle today; a picture was a low price to pay for not inconveniencing him further.

All the eye rolls in the world didn’t diminish Prompto’s enthusiasm a bit as he sensed Noctis’s surrender and pulled him closer for that selfie. In the fraction of a second before the flash went off, he had to wonder if _this_ was how things were going to be for the next few weeks.

_I’d better get Uncle Cid dessert. Lots of dessert._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gang's officially all here! :D 
> 
> Also, I have to thank you guys for the amazing reception to this story. I look at my stats and am utterly shocked to see the phenomenal feedback I have gotten. Thank you so much!


	16. Out There

“Noctis.”

“What?”

“Noc _tis_.”

“ _What_?”

“ _Nooooctiiiis_.”

Huffing in irritation, Noctis glowered at Prompto when the latter dropped dramatically into the seat opposite him. “I _said_ what.”

“Dude, how do you _do_ it?” he asked hopelessly, oblivious to the fact that he was interrupting Noctis’s homework time to… Actually, he had no idea _what_ it was Prompto wanted.

“Uh…” Noctis glanced down at his workbook as if he might find the answer there. “Divide by the denominator, I guess.”

Math apparently wasn’t Prompto’s concern. That, or he hated it as much as Gladio did. Either way, he propped his elbows on the table and groaned into his hands as if Noctis had just informed him that the diner was out of brownies. (They weren’t—he’d _just_ helped Nyx with a batch a few hours ago.)

Noctis knew he was _supposed_ to ask what was the matter or lend a sympathetic ear, but…he really had to finish this. After all, it was due tomorrow, and he hadn’t gotten any of it done during his shift like he thought he would. It figured that the _one_ day he was relying on Takka’s to be quiet so that he could do some homework between customers turned out to be a nightmare. If it _could_ go wrong, it _had_ : Noctis had burned a dozen pancakes (all of which had been formed from a perfect batch of batter for a change), Nyx had been called upon to clean up after a few hunters got a little _too_ rowdy out back, and they’d run out of potatoes halfway through the lunch rush with no time to replenish their stock. Whenever he so much as turned in the general direction of the counter where he’d left his books, someone wanted something from him. This was his job, so he knew he shouldn’t complain about having to do it, but he’d still hoped to catch a break.

When he finally ended his shift and clocked out for the evening, Noctis hadn’t bothered going home. If he did, it would end with him falling asleep long before he’d be able to finish his homework; unfortunately, he had found that out from experience a few too many times. Dinner and a shower already sounded like an impossible feat, so there was no way he would have gotten further than that.

How silly of him: he’d assumed it would be safer and less distracting to take up residence in a booth at the diner with a plate of fries and his algebra homework. It hadn’t occurred to him that _nowhere_ was safe when Prompto was around.

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t grown somewhat accustomed to his uncle’s new tenant in the three weeks since he’d started living with them. Prompto was a funny guy; he was so full of energy that Noctis _wished_ he had, particularly in moments when he fell into that familiar rut of uncertainty. They hadn’t spent a ton of time together, but he enjoyed the occasions when they appropriated the video games that were still squirreled away at Takka’s or just sat around making fun of his uncle’s more eccentric customers. Even Uncle Cid wasn’t immune to his almost overwhelmingly positive attitude, although he liked to pretend that he found it more obnoxious than anything else. There was just no hiding the little smirk that would twitch at the corner of his mouth when Prompto claimed a minor victory against the automotive gods, who he complained were out to get him more often than not.

It didn’t stop him from issuing occasional reminders that Prompto was supposed to be looking for work elsewhere, but Noctis figured that was only to be expected. Being a nice guy wasn’t going to convince his uncle to retain an employee he ultimately didn’t want.

That was reason enough for Noctis to keep his distance, even if Prompto made it more difficult than he ever would have imagined. It wasn’t like he actively avoided him, but Noctis didn’t go out of his way to hang out, either. When he couldn’t come up with any excuses and they wasted an afternoon goofing off together, he was constantly reminding himself that this wasn’t going to last. It might take a couple of weeks, maybe even a few months, and then Prompto was going to move on from Hammerhead just like everybody else. And that was okay—Noctis had his family and friends, so it wasn’t like the thought left him aching the way it used to when he was younger. Barring anything coming up, Ignis and Gladio would be visiting soon, and Cor would probably be with them; Nyx was around when he went to work, and his uncle and Cindy were there when he got home. Noctis didn’t mind spending time with Prompto while he was here, but he wasn’t about to get attached. Helping him find a job didn’t automatically make them friends, after all.

Although Noctis was aware of that fact, it increasingly appeared that Prompto hadn’t quite figured it out yet. When he didn’t have anything better to do, he’d wander around Hammerhead until he spotted Noctis; after that, it was like he had his own personal—and extremely talkative—shadow that followed him _everywhere_. He wouldn’t have minded the company if it weren’t for the fact that he had a million other things that needed doing. Crowe had already chewed him out twice in the last week for neglecting his homework when he’d had three days to do it. Of course, he _could_ have told her that he had to work every day and had been too tired to focus on his studies by the time he got home, but it sounded like an excuse to his own ears. If it meant enough to him, he’d find the opportunity to get it done—that was what Ignis always said despite how often Gladio made fun of him for it.

Noctis wasn’t about to give Crowe another chance to lay into him, nor did he want to hear what Ignis would say when he found out—and he _would_ find out. Over the years, Noctis had started to reconsider the possibility that Ignis could, in fact, read his mind. That was the best explanation for how simply asking about school inevitably ended in a lecture when Noctis barely answered with more than _fine_.

At least this time he’d be able to say _the guy my uncle hired distracted me_. That was as good an excuse as any.

Prompto was definitely determined to do that much, because he grumbled through his fingers, “That’s not what I meant.”

At the rate things were going, that was probably a good thing. Noctis was struggling enough to get this finished without having to teach Prompto as well—not that he’d seriously thought that was what this conversation was about. He didn’t bother asking, though; he knew that if he just waited long enough, Prompto would cut to the chase.

It happened a lot quicker than usual tonight.

“ _Cindy_ , dude,” he whined, dropping his hands and leaning back in his seat to stare at the ceiling. Fortunately, that meant he didn’t see Noctis’s look of complete incomprehension.

“What about her?”

“Just… _everything_! She’s a goddess,” sighed Prompto with a dreamy smile. “A grease-monkey _goddess_.”

Noctis blinked, swallowing down the sudden urge to vomit. Needless to say, his voice came out a little strangled when he replied, “If you say so.”

That _really_ should have been the end of the conversation. Noctis was hoping it would be, anyway. One thing he had learned about Prompto over the last couple of weeks, however, was that he could be pretty damn persistent. There were some topics he wouldn’t latch onto no matter how pointed you made them, like where he’d come from or just how badly he’d bombed his job interviews throughout Duscae. Other things, though? There was no shutting him up about that stuff.

Cindy was apparently one of the latter.

“I’ve _never_ met anyone like her. She’s smart, she’s funny—and she likes cars! How many girls like cars as much as she does?”

“Not many,” intoned Noctis as he wearily turned his attention back to his homework. Prompto took that as encouragement to continue rather than the passive disinterest that it was.

“Nope! Totally one of a kind! Like today, I was trying to put a radiator back in, and you know what she said to me?”

Sighing, Noctis humored him with an exasperated, “What?”

“ _Yer puttin’ it in the wrong way_ ,” Prompto recited with an almost embarrassingly exaggerated imitation of Cindy’s accent. Noctis would have been insulted on her behalf if it weren’t for the fact that Prompto obviously didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was bordering on gross just how reverential he made it sound. Maybe it was because they were talking about _Cindy_ , or perhaps it was simply that Noctis didn’t know many girls and therefore didn’t give them much thought, but he _really_ wanted this conversation to end already.

“Sounds like good advice,” was all he managed in response, hoping futilely that it was enough to cut this short.

“The best…” Prompto trailed off, and when Noctis looked up at him, the expression on his face was less dreamy and more uncomfortable than he was expecting. “You… You don’t think…”

A few seconds passed where he simply stared at the table between them, a slight crease between his eyebrows. Noctis knew he was going to regret asking, especially when the last thing he wanted was to think about his cousin the way Prompto seemed to, but the total shift was unnerving to say the least. Besides, Prompto would ask if _he_ were the one eyeing a table as though it might leap up and clobber him; he’d done it too often when Noctis was in a bad mood for him to believe otherwise.

“Think what?” he eventually prompted. It was about time he returned the favor, even if it meant he’d be up even later trying to finish the problems Crowe had assigned him. Instead of answering, Prompto listlessly shrugged a shoulder as if he hadn’t found this important enough to come barging into Noctis’s homework time five minutes ago.

“Uh, never mind. It’s nothing.”

Now it was Noctis’s turn to stare. There was no way he was buying that one, not when Prompto was doing his best imitation of the scrubby bushes outside the garage: still standing but only just. Noctis figured he must have looked about as incredulous as he felt, because when Prompto glanced up at him, he cringed like he’d been caught stealing mints from the bowl behind the counter. (Again.)

The nice thing was that he didn’t bother trying to evade the question this time. Rather, he heaved a tortured sigh and dropped his gaze to his lap when he muttered, “Just…y’know… She’d never go for a guy like me, right? She’s way outta my league.”

_…Oh. Duh._

Noctis _really_ should have guessed that this was where the conversation was headed. Seriously, Takka could probably have figured it out, and he was clueless on a _good_ day. There was no going back now, though, so he simply shifted uncomfortably in his seat and scanned the diner for something else he could focus on rather than the half hopeful, half despairing expression on Prompto’s face. He figured the caution sign he put out every time he mopped was as good as anything else.

“You…never know?” he ventured uncertainly, wincing when Prompto’s face fell. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut after all.

To his credit, Prompto didn’t bother whining about it the way Noctis almost expected him to. He simply shrugged it off with a quick, “I guess,” that didn’t sound nearly as flippant as he was probably aiming for. It did nothing to lighten the weight of guilt that had settled in Noctis’s stomach for killing his dreams, however awkward they might be.

“If it helps,” he hastened to reassure him, “it’s not just you.”

He wouldn’t say Prompto’s eyes rolled _all_ the way back in their sockets, but it was a near miss.

Shaking his head, Noctis continued, “I’m pretty sure she’d date a car before anyone else. Like you said, she’s kind of in love with them.”

Prompto grudgingly nodded at that, not that anyone could deny it after spending even an hour around Cindy at the garage. In Noctis’s memory, she had never shown even the slightest interest in any of the guys who passed through Hammerhead, so it wasn’t like Prompto was the only interested party that ended up being ignored on a daily basis. Noctis couldn’t figure out whether she suffered from the same lack of interaction that he did or if she merely cared more for her job than the idea of a relationship. Knowing her as well as he did, he was putting his gil on the latter.

He wasn’t about to decimate whatever minuscule amount of hope Prompto had left, though, nor was he going to point out that Cindy wasn’t likely to be interested in someone the same age as her younger cousin. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Besides,” he pressed on without waiting for an answer, “it’s not like you’re gonna be here long, anyway. Right?”

That appeared to drag Prompto out of the doldrums a bit, and he sounded slightly more enthusiastic when he answered, “That’s true, I guess.”

Sensing his opportunity to change the subject, Noctis automatically inquired, “Any luck with that?”

“Oh, uh… Yeah! …Kinda?”

Well, that sounded less than promising. Noctis merely raised his eyebrows in question, to which Prompto replied with a bashful smile.

“Okay, so…honesty time? It’s not, like, a _real_ job or anything, but… I’ve kinda had this thing lined up for a while.”

Noctis frowned and asked haltingly, “How long is _a while_?”

“Uh…”

He didn’t need to go any further than that—Noctis could already tell what it was he meant. _A while_ as in _before_ he came to Hammerhead. _A while_ as in _before_ Noctis had wheedled his uncle into giving him a job.

Hazarding a glance at where Takka was sweeping up behind the counter, Noctis leaned forward to hiss under his breath, “I thought you said you didn’t _have_ a job.”

“I don’t! Seriously, dude—it’s not what you think,” Prompto immediately evaded, waving his hands in front of him as though that might keep Noctis from marching straight over to the garage and telling Uncle Cid. “This is more like a…freelance gig?”

“A freelance gig,” deadpanned Noctis. “That sounds like a _job_ to me.”

Prompto groaned, shaking his head so emphatically that it was surprising he didn’t fall over. “ _Nooo_ , it’s not that big a deal. Like, I don’t even _technically_ have the job yet. That’s kinda why I’m out here.”

That only served to deepen Noctis’s frown. How exactly was it possible to have a job and _not_ have a job at the same time?

“That doesn’t make any sense,” he replied bluntly, cutting off Prompto’s attempt at an explanation. If he were smart, he would have left it at that and gone back home to tell Uncle Cid that he didn’t need to keep on his third wheel of an employee anymore. Instead, he sat back in his seat as Prompto stammered through a couple of incoherent half sentences, waiting for something that might convince him he hadn’t been taken in by the kind of conman Gladio had practically accused Prompto of being when Noctis last spoke with him on the phone.

If Gladio turned out to be right, Noctis would _never_ live it down.

After a few seconds of pointless flailing that earned him more than one condescending glance from the few customers left in the diner at this hour, Prompto finally slumped forward to let his arms rest on the table and pleaded, “I haven’t _got_ the job, but I’m trying! I just…haven’t found what I need yet.”

Noctis shot him his best impression of Gladio’s most unimpressed glare and inquired, “And what is it that you’re looking for?”

A pause, then, “The perfect shot.”

“The…” Noctis cocked his head to the side. “The _what_?”

Sighing, Prompto dug around in his pocket for a moment before laying a stack of crumpled papers on the table between them. “They’re not the greatest or anything, but they’re pretty good, I guess.”

Noctis tentatively reached for the pile, realizing what he meant when he pulled it closer to see that these weren’t just any papers—they were _pictures_ , and damn good ones at that. The first wasn’t of anything he recognized: there were towering green trees and arches of stone in the distance behind them, none of which existed out here. Where Hammerhead was a sea of browns, the place in Prompto’s photograph seemed to come alive with all sorts of colors that didn’t exist in the Leiden landscape. They were so vivid that he couldn’t tell whether it was just a lucky shot of the scenery or the talent of the photographer, although he knew which one he was leaning towards. This picture may not have been that special to _Prompto_ , but Noctis had a hard time dragging his eyes away from it to stare at him in wonder.

“You took this?”

“Yeah,” he confirmed with a casual shrug, “back in Duscae.”

 _So, this is what it looks like_ , mused Noctis, squinting down at the picture again and trying to memorize everything about it. The only images of Duscae he’d ever seen were on the news, and even those didn’t tend to show what existed beyond the limits of Lestallum. They never focused on how _green_ everything was, or the way the hills rolled artfully down towards a stone crater that appeared to have been carved right into the center of the earth. Over the years, he’d begun to realize that most outposts were fairly similar; this view from the outside, however, gave him a whole new appreciation of just how different things were in other places.

As he flipped through the pictures, Noctis listened as Prompto explained where he’d taken this one or what he’d had to do to get that one. Apparently, he was no stranger to risking his life in pursuit of what he was dubbing _the perfect shot_. Noctis didn’t think he would have been so willing to take that chance, but the way Prompto came alive describing each new experience kept him from voicing that opinion. His uncle had taught him when he was little that what seemed foolish to some meant the world to others; it wasn’t Noctis’s place to take the wind out of his sails if this was what Prompto was passionate about.

“So, you want to be a photographer?” he finally asked when he reached the last picture. The corner of his mouth twitched a little when he saw that all those impressive pieces were followed up by the halfhearted selfie he’d let Prompto take of them the day they met.

“That’s the plan.”

“And this freelance thing…?”

Prompto grimaced. “Yeah, see, I made a deal with this guy: I get the perfect shot, he gives me a permanent job working for one of the biggest papers in Duscae.”

Raising an eyebrow, Noctis inquired, “Isn’t it illegal to hire someone who’s still underage?”

“Uh…maybe?” Shrugging, he pointed out, “I mean, it wouldn’t have to be official or anything. I don’t mind under the table stuff!”

Admittedly, Noctis couldn’t say much about that. After all, Uncle Cid was basically doing the same thing—Prompto wasn’t an _official_ employee at the garage, but he was still getting paid for his work. For all he knew, people bucked the system all the time; just because he was working in a shitty diner didn’t mean there weren’t other places out there that would be clamoring to hire someone talented for a fraction of the cost because of their age. Regardless, this explained a lot, even if it still rankled that Prompto hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about the possibility of securing a position _before_ he’d accepted Noctis’s offer to introduce him to his uncle.

It begged the question of what _else_ Prompto hadn’t told him.

“Okay, let me get this straight.” Noctis leaned back in his seat with a frown. “You’ve been all over Lucis looking for the right place to…take a picture?”

“Can’t just keep snapping away at the same old, _same old_ ,” Prompto confirmed, gesturing towards the photos with renewed enthusiasm. “No way, this has gotta be _epic_! Something he’s never seen before that’ll really blow him away!”

Snorting, Noctis retorted, “So you came _here_?”

“Aw, come on, man! It’s not that bad.”

“It’s not exactly what I’d call picturesque,” he observed, smirking when Prompto didn’t have an immediate answer for that.

“Okay, yeah,” he grudgingly admitted, rolling his eyes at Noctis’s smirk. “But I’ve been scouting out locations, and I think I found the perfect one!”

“Where’s that?”

“That weird looking mountain. Y’know, the one on the road to Galdin?”

“You mean Longwythe?” asked Noctis with no small amount of trepidation. If Prompto noticed the way his words were slightly stilted at the mere mention of that place, it didn’t give him pause. Instead, he leaned forward and nodded emphatically.

“That’s it! Dude, that place is so awesome. First thing in the morning, when the sun comes up…” He trailed off, sighing. “I saw it this one time and just _knew_ that’s the shot I need to get.”

Of course it was. Unlike Noctis, Longwythe Peak wasn’t crawling with terrible memories that made sunlight moot and beauty a thing of the past. Prompto didn’t have to remember what had happened seven years ago in the shadow of that mountain; he didn’t have to see its apex in the distance and shudder at the thought of what it had witnessed that night.

So, it really shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise when Prompto shot him his best pleading smile and offered, “Always room for some company out there!”

 _Hell no, hell no,_ hell no _._

Noctis bit back the urge to respond with his first instinct and instead ground out, “Think I’ll pass on this one.”

“But it’ll be _fuuuuun_!” whined Prompto, leaning across the table to close his math book when Noctis tried to stick his nose into it. “Come on, man. Live a little!”

“Maybe another time,” Noctis hedged. If it weren’t for the fact that it was none of Prompto’s business, he would have pointed out that _living a little_ was what he wanted to continue doing, which meant visiting Longwythe in the early hours of the morning was out of the question. The daemons might be fewer these days, but that didn’t mean he was willing to take the risk of being out before the sun came up.

Actually, he wasn’t willing to take the risk of being out at _all_. Noctis hadn’t left Hammerhead since he was eight years old, not even to visit Nyx on the rare occasion that the latter reminded him he was always welcome. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go see a friend; he would have relished the opportunity to drop by and get some help with his homework when he was a kid. He simply couldn’t bring himself to leave now. Every time he considered it, his mind would assault him with a deluge of memories: piercing swords, soulless black eyes, towering shadows. It didn’t matter if the sun was out or if he was lying in bed with the nightlight Gladio had made for him once upon a time still plugged into the outlet next to his dresser: the mere memory of that daemon was enough to deter Noctis from setting foot outside the outpost. All those aspirations of being a hunter and going on adventures? They’d evaporated, leaving behind a gaping chasm where his dreams had once been.

The worst part was that Noctis didn’t _want_ that—he didn’t want to be scared of the dark or the distance. More than anything, he just wanted to feel normal, like he could do as he pleased without remembering the terrible things that had happened last time he’d been stupid enough to wander off on his own. If he could only get past this irrational fear of what lay beyond the borders of Hammerhead, he could go visit Ignis and Gladio rather than constantly making them come to him; he could think about what it was he wanted to do with the rest of his life instead of hanging suspended between his childhood and his future with no idea which way to swing.

Every time he tried, his heart beat faster and his feet cemented themselves to the ground.

Prompto was lucky: he didn’t have to worry about those sorts of things. Noctis, on the other hand, _did_. Even now, there were days when it was all he thought about; he’d stare out at the desert and consider how innocent it would appear if not for the monsters that roamed the shadows at night. There was no way he’d be able to accompany Prompto to Longwythe like this—he _couldn’t_.

Noctis’s reluctance didn’t stop him from asking over and over and _over_ , though. In three days, he tried every excuse in the book from not knowing where he was going (which was ridiculous since _he_ was the one who’d scouted the location) to outright bribes (as if he made enough to pay for Noctis’s dinner for a month). There was even a point where he threatened to go on a _friendship strike_ and not talk to him until he agreed. There were only two problems with that: for one, Prompto couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he tried, and for another, Noctis wasn’t that lucky. He hadn’t gotten in any more trouble with Crowe, but it was mostly due to the fact that he’d taken to staying up _way_ later than he should to get his work finished and was surviving off of very little sleep some days.

On the plus side, it meant he was too exhausted for his brain to replay his two routine nightmares, so he couldn’t complain about that.

The drawback? After a week of fielding Prompto’s requests, Noctis had no energy left to argue anymore.

“ _Fiiiiine_ ,” he finally capitulated, an hour away from the end of his shift and a minute away from the end of his rope.

Prompto paused, his mouth hanging open in preparation for whatever new incentive he was about to concoct. It took a few seconds for him to register what it was Noctis had said before a grin stretched across his face. “Really?!”

Sighing, Noctis dumped the dinner plates in the sink and muttered, “You’re the one who keeps asking.”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know. Guess I didn’t expect you to say _yes_.”

Noctis didn’t bother pointing out that he _wouldn’t_ be saying yes if Prompto would just _stop asking_. Clearly, he didn’t want to go alone; apparently there was some sort of artistic genius in having a silhouette to add to the solitary tone of the piece…whatever that meant. Agreeing to this was bad enough—Noctis was _not_ about to model on top of it all. His gut was already twisting in apprehension as it was.

“Well, I did,” he pointed out brusquely. It was a lot easier not to meet Prompto’s eyes when he was scraping dried cheese into the drain. The triumphant cheer that normally would have made him smile only served to make his skin crawl instead.

“Oh, man. This is gonna be the best photo op ever! He’ll _have_ to give me the job once he sees this!”

“Yeah,” sighed Noctis, clenching a plate tightly between his hands, “he’d better.”

 

***

 

“Hey, Noct,” panted Gladio when the call connected.

 “Hey…” Noctis replied with a frown. “You sound outta breath. Everything okay?”

There was a bark of laughter on the other end of the phone. “Yeah. Just, uh…comin’ back from a jog. No big deal.”

“Sounds like it was one hell of a jog,” he mused, rolling his eyes. Leave it to Gladio to go running first thing in the morning.

“There a better kind?”

_He can’t be serious._

“Oh, I don’t know,” Noctis replied in a mockingly thoughtful tone. “Maybe the one where you just don’t go and stay in bed?”

“Maybe for _you_ , princess,” snorted Gladio in that way he had of making it pretty obvious he was simultaneously rolling his eyes. Noctis hadn’t let that bother him since they were kids and wasn’t about to start up again now. 

“ _That_ would be the life,” he grumbled, picking at a loose thread on his jacket. “If I _were_ a prince, I’d skip out on the workouts and stay in bed all day. Not like anyone could tell me not to.”

There was a beat of silence where Noctis could only hear the muffled sounds of voices in the background. When he received no response, he prompted, “Gladio?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he hurriedly replied, “just waiting for the light to change. Anyway, you’re one to talk. Ain’t like you ever work out anyway. You wouldn’t be so scrawny if you did.”

Noctis scoffed. “Hey, I got muscle! You just…can’t see it.”

“Sure. You keep tellin’ yourself that.”

“Thanks, I will.”

Gladio’s sigh made Noctis smile, which was sort of the reason he’d called at this ungodly hour of the morning. Well, maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous for Gladio to be conscious and coherent at six; he didn’t wake up as early as Ignis, yet he wasn’t one for sleeping in either. Both of them had a few hours’ head start on him when he could get away with it, and he was quite happy to keep it that way…most days.

Today, however, was different. Today, he needed all the strength he could get, and who better to go to for that than Gladio? It was always a tossup as to whether he was going to get a confidence boost or a verbal smackdown from his absent friend, but Noctis was willing to take the risk. When he was standing at his window watching the line of the horizon just beginning to lighten, he figured it was worth it.

“So, you sure you’re gonna be okay out there?” Gladio asked, his voice lowering into something softer than before. That didn’t keep the question from making Noctis wince.

“Ignis told you?”

“Who else?”

“Traitor,” he mumbled, shrugging a shoulder even though Gladio wouldn’t be able to see. “And I guess I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

“Sure you do. Just don’t go.”

“I already promised Prompto I would.”

Gladio made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a growl. “Big deal. You don’t wanna go, you don’t go. He’ll figure it out.”

“I know, but…”

Noctis stopped himself before he could say what was really on his mind, predicting that it would sound childish to someone like Gladio. After all, he wasn’t afraid of _anything_ ; never had been, never would be. It was one of the qualities Noctis admired most about him and wished he could emulate to no avail. By comparison, he felt like a coward, jumping at shadows and letting nightmares rule his life when he should have been able to tell the difference between dreams and reality by now. Part of the reason he was doing this _did_ have to do with Prompto, but the rest was all him. He didn’t _want_ to be scared anymore, especially not of something as stupid as walking across the street. What should have been easy instead made him freeze up at the curb or hide away in his room where no one else had to witness his shame.

Uncle Cid hadn’t raised Noctis to run from his problems, but to face them head-on. This was perhaps the only exception to that rule, much to his mingled relief and consternation. Whether it was because Noctis had come so close to dying or that his uncle simply didn’t want to tell him that he couldn’t keep hiding from something that was his own damn fault to begin with, Uncle Cid had never said anything about his tendency to shy away from the world beyond the outpost. In all their talks about his future, he’d never once pushed him to seek a life outside of Hammerhead.

He _should_ have—if Noctis hadn’t gotten hurt as a kid, he probably _would_ have.

For his uncle, for his friends, for _himself_ , Noctis _needed_ to go out there and face his fears, even if he _wanted_ to do the exact opposite.

The words to describe how he felt simply weren’t there when he’d tried to explain that to Ignis the night before; true to form, the latter heard them all the same. There wasn’t a whole lot he could say except that Noctis’s desire to help Prompto might give him the strength he needed to overcome his own insecurities about what lay beyond his comfort zone. He’d made a pretty good point, although Noctis refused to rise to the bait when Ignis quite smugly implied that it was the sort of move a _friend_ would make.

Yeah, he was aware of that. No, he really didn’t need to talk about it.

Because this wasn’t going to change anything: Ignis and Gladio were his friends. Prompto was fleeting—he’d get his picture and then run back to Duscae as soon as his editor buddy told him he had the job. And that was okay. When he was gone, Noctis could take pride in having done the right thing, both for Prompto and himself. He’d said as much to Ignis, who had done his level best not to sound as proud as he clearly was.

Gladio, of course, was as unlike Ignis in temperament as in everything else. As such, his was a very different brand of support.

“Why not just wait till Iggy and I are there next week?” he grumbled. Noctis rolled his eyes again as he headed for the door to his room.

“Because I don’t need a babysitter? And besides, Prompto said something about the angle of the sun being just right this week or…whatever.”

Scoffing, Gladio retorted, “The hell’s the difference?”

“Got me.”

The resulting stream of profanity and condescension regarding artists and their craft made Noctis smile on his way out of the apartment, although there was no avoiding how his heart started beating about five times faster than was both normal and probably healthy for him. (He would have asked, but Gladio wasn’t Ignis.) Having a familiar voice in his ear helped him remember to place one foot in front of the other until he descended the stairs, crossed through the garage, and stepped out into the early morning light. If he was being honest, getting _that_ far was already an accomplishment in itself.

As determined as he was to see this through, it would have been a lie to say that he wasn’t tempted by the prospect of waiting until he could bring some more substantial company along. He wouldn’t do that to Prompto, though, not when he was relying on Noctis to man up and get with the program. What was he going to do—sit around Hammerhead for the rest of his life? Something had to give, and if it meant straying outside his comfort zone for the first time in seven years without the safety net he had come to rely on ever since, then so be it. At least he would come back with a little bit of the dignity he’d lost that night.

That or he wouldn’t come back at all, but he was desperately trying not to think about that.

It was easier said than done when he glanced at the sky to find that it was still dark enough to be considered _night_ , even if the stars had vanished in anticipation of the approaching dawn. The thought sent a chill down his spine, and Noctis used his free hand to zip his jacket up to his neck as he made his way over to where he spotted Prompto waiting near the convenience store.

How the hell was he so _chipper_ at this hour? He was practically bouncing with excitement that Noctis simply wouldn’t have been able to muster regardless of the reason for his early rising.

This was already shaping up to be a trip he wasn’t going to enjoy.

“Hate to cut this short,” he interrupted Gladio, who was still steamrolling Prompto’s chosen vocation, “but I’ve gotta get going.”

There was a slight pause, then, “You get in any trouble out there, you call me.”

Huffing in exasperation, Noctis mumbled into the phone, “Yeah, I know. Uncle Cid and Nyx said the same thing.”

“Then do us all a favor and remember, okay?”

“It’ll be fine,” he replied, not sure who needed the most convincing: Gladio or himself. There was no fooling the former, though.

“Noct.”

“All right, yeah,” sighed Noctis with a grimace when Prompto noticed him and waved. “I got it.”

“Good. And hey…”

“Yeah?”

The line went quiet for a minute, long enough that he thought maybe the call dropped until Gladio grudgingly continued, “Be careful.”

“I will,” he promised sincerely, disconnecting and shoving his phone into his pocket.

It wasn’t often that he went to Gladio when his emotions were out of whack, but Noctis was glad he did this time. No, Gladio wasn’t the most sympathetic individual; he was more the type of person who would punch you in the face to take your mind off a bruised arm. Knowing that he was worried enough to drop the tough guy act and be _normal_ for a change almost made Noctis call him back and push Prompto to wait another week until they had two more companions for backup.

 _Almost_.

“All set?” Noctis inquired instead when Prompto jogged over to meet him, nodding at the plastic bag in his hand.

“You bet!” he immediately exclaimed. “Just waiting on you to rise and shine.”

Oh, now _that_ was a laugh. “Yeah, pretty sure there’s no _shining_ yet.”

“Aw, lighten up, dude! This is gonna be fun!”

_Right. Fun._

To his credit, at least Prompto had anticipated his less than enthusiastic response and prepared accordingly. The bag he shoved unceremoniously into Noctis’s hands was filled to the brim with those mini donut packages that made Ignis shudder to think about. Apparently they had zero nutritional value and were the key to putting on weight. If Noctis cared about any of that, he might have listened, but these were the _chocolate_ kind. His health could wait a day—what Ignis didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

The half smirk that had been tugging at Noctis’s lips at the thought of what he would say if he were here vanished as soon as Prompto started leading the way towards the street, clearly taking his reaction as confirmation that he was ready to get this show on the road. He _wasn’t_ , although he seriously doubted he ever would be, and it took every ounce of willpower Noctis had to follow him away from the lights of the gas station. There was never much traffic this early in the morning, but he stopped at the edge of the street regardless to stare out into the darkness.

This was it—no turning back now. Prompto had already skipped across the road, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’d lost his companion, and Noctis watched him hop over the guardrail on the other side with an envious sort of dread. He’d done the same thing a few years ago, and he’d thought about as much of it then as Prompto did now. That hadn’t ended well for anyone, least of all himself. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the scar on his back seemed to throb at the mere memory of it.

Not for the first time, that voice in the back of his head reminded him that he didn’t have to do this, that he could turn around and go back to bed. He could sleep in and then get up to help Uncle Cid wash a few of the cars that needed to be ready for their owners to pick them up later today instead of risking his life and his sanity for one picture.

It was a tempting proposal, one that had Noctis turning around to gaze longingly at the garage. Uncle Cid didn’t usually open for a couple of hours yet, so it was surprising to see him standing in the open doorway, especially since Noctis had been so careful not to wake anyone when he left. From this distance, he couldn’t make out the look on his face, but he could tell that Uncle Cid was watching him.

The small part of Noctis that didn’t care about getting over his fears had sort of hoped his uncle would tell Prompto to find someone else for this little field trip of theirs when he’d first run the idea by him. Instead, he had been almost sickeningly supportive in spite of the tightness around the corners of his mouth that spoke of an entirely different emotion altogether. After that, he hadn’t said another word about it, not even to ask if Noctis was positive that this was what he wanted—he _had_ to know that wasn’t the case.

Here he was, though, waiting by the door as if to say that he’d see them when they came back and to be careful, just like Gladio. The thought made Noctis wonder if he was being selfish, if worrying the people he cared about was too much when their entire lives seemed to revolve around him half the time as it was. Would Uncle Cid rather he stayed home? Would Nyx show up before his shift to see if Noctis had returned in one piece? Would Ignis and Gladio be sitting in Insomnia wondering whether they should call or wait for him to get in touch?

Was his own pride really _worth_ it?

“Hey, Noctis! You coming?”

Blinking, he glanced back around to see Prompto waiting on the other side of the street, the shadows doing nothing to hide the concern on his face.

_Great, now I’m worrying him, too._

“Yeah,” he called, swallowing hard. “Just a sec!”

“Hurry up or we’ll miss it!”

_What a tragedy that would be._

Noctis didn’t answer aloud, turning to the garage one last time and raising a hand above his head. For a long moment, Uncle Cid didn’t acknowledge it, and Noctis had to wonder whether he wasn’t looking at him the way he’d assumed. Then his own hand rose in the same gesture, albeit much slower and a little more stilted. It was that more than anything else that assured Noctis he was right— _yes_ , he was being selfish. It didn’t mean this wasn’t necessary, though. Uncle Cid was worried, but he clearly believed that Noctis could do this; otherwise, he would have been coming out here to tell him to go back inside, not see him off. In a way, that was all the encouragement he needed.

He could do this. And if he couldn’t, then he had to try. The people he cared about _were_ worried, yet they were able to overcome that to show Noctis they believed in him. He couldn’t let them down.

So, taking a deep breath, he stepped off the sidewalk for the first time in seven years and followed Prompto across the street. One of the best parts about him not knowing what had happened was that he didn’t make a big deal out of it the way someone else would. Nyx’s eyes would have been on him the whole time like he knew Uncle Cid’s were; Ignis and Gladio never would have moved out of arm’s reach. It would have felt like he was being guarded when all he wanted was to do this on his own.

With Prompto, he was allowed to imagine that was the case. He didn’t stick to Noctis like they were joined at the hip, nor did he feel the need to fill the silence with pointless chatter when he had nothing to say. If his companion realized that he was ill at ease, that his steps were stiffer than they should have been and his eyes scanned the shadows more than they watched where he was putting his feet, he didn’t say a word. Prompto just stuck his hand in the bag Noctis was still carrying, grabbed a pack of donuts, and started munching on them as though he had nothing to fear from the darkness. Noctis would have tried emulating his optimism, but he was pretty sure that putting anything in his stomach would result in promptly losing it behind a bush somewhere, so it wasn’t worth the effort. If he got through this with his sanity firmly intact, then he would eat the rest of the bag all on his own.

He was definitely going to need it, that was for sure. Noctis knew could tell the second they turned towards Longwythe, their course mirroring the one he’d taken as a kid. They were following the exact same path, although there was a lot less zigzagging to do since he wasn’t following an errant frog. Prompto wasn’t a great deal better, to be honest, but it was easy to chalk that up to his excitement. Noctis could understand, even if he wasn’t exactly feeling it himself. He was too busy swallowing down the damning desire to turn back before the lights of the outpost disappeared again, leaving him in seemingly everlasting darkness.

That was the most difficult part: reliving his past with almost painstaking clarity. In his dreams, he was usually already out there, trying to find his way home instead of moving away from it. This was something entirely different and, in a sense, more frightening than his nightmares. This was deliberately following a dangerous road, one that would have led him to the end of his life if it hadn’t been for Uncle Cid sending Nyx to find him at just the right time. This was history repeating itself, only Noctis was silently praying to any deity that might be listening that they wouldn’t meet the same fate he had all those years ago.

Heedless of the past, they wandered away from Hammerhead, paralleling a dirt road that would have taken them into The Three Valleys if they hadn’t deviated at the last minute—exactly as he had when Sania’s red frog hopped away from the beaten track towards the mountain. Noctis had hoped that his nerves would ease somewhat when the sun started coming up, but the line of red on the horizon had him breathing faster instead, and not with the exertion of their hike. It was the same now: dawn or dusk, they both looked identical. Both threw shadows where they shouldn’t have been, forming freakish shapes around the rocks and bushes they passed until Noctis’s mind turned all of them into daemons. They seemed to reach for him, wanting to drag him into the same abyss that the monsters of his nightmares did. Skirting around them and leaving them behind did not help—it simply meant that he felt nonexistent eyes on his back, like the daemons were simply waiting for the right moment to strike and letting him sweat in the meantime.

As soon as they passed over the crest of a hill Noctis remembered so vividly that he could have been there just yesterday, he was sure that Prompto knew something was wrong. It was in the way he kept shooting furtive glances over his shoulder and rambling on about nothing in particular to lighten the tension that had fallen between them. He didn’t ask what was wrong, though, nor did he attempt to draw Noctis into his one-sided conversation. For that, he was unspeakably grateful; he doubted he would have found the words to respond with anyway. Perhaps he might have been capable of a few terse answers when they first left the outpost, but by the time they reached the bottom of the hill and the lights of Hammerhead officially disappeared from view, it was all Noctis could do just to maintain his composure.

Because Longwythe Peak was reaching towards the sky ahead of them, a dark and intimidating presence rising up from the surrounding wasteland.

It was almost as though he could see the shadows of his much smaller self and the creature that had attacked him in the distance. He could practically feel the stubby branch he’d torn off a nearby bush to defend himself in his hand, and Noctis scratched idly at his palm as he remembered how he’d tried so hard to recall what Gladio had taught him—it hadn’t worked, _nothing_ had worked—his mind had been screaming at him to simply _run_ —

Swinging blades, barking dogs, gunshots—

“Look, it’s happening!”

Prompto’s voice shook him from his thoughts—from his past—and Noctis jerked back a step. _What_ was happening?! Were there daemons—were they under attack—did they need to run—

No. No, that wasn’t what Prompto meant at all.

Blinking the visions of days long gone from his mind’s eye, Noctis pulled in a deep breath and held it when he saw the sun peeking over the distant horizon. It was just the tiniest sliver of light, but it was enough to cast beams of gold over the landscape, painting the sand a shade of orange that Noctis had never really registered back at the outpost.

In the middle of it all was the mountain, the last sight he thought he’d ever see once upon a time. Rather than the imposing, ominous shape it represented in his nightmares, however, this was… Well, if Noctis had to describe it, the only word he could think of was _beautiful_. The sun rested right at the spot where Longwythe curved forward, framed by the rocks as though it had been painted there by the Six themselves. Whereas Noctis would have thought the obstruction might mar the brilliant scene before him, the scene that wiped out and overwrote images of a boy who should never have left home alone, it had the opposite effect.

All of a sudden, he understood what Prompto had meant when he said that _this_ was the perfect shot.

Coincidentally, the latter chose that moment to snap a picture, and the sound of his camera shutter had Noctis tearing his eyes away from the dawn. It turned out that he wouldn’t get much of a choice in being Prompto’s model after all—the little sneak had decided to take matters into his own hands. While Noctis was distracted, he’d crept up behind him to snap a few shots of the silhouette he said would complete his ideal tableau. If the huge grin on his face was any indication, then it had turned out exactly the way he’d imagined.

“Get your shot?” Noctis asked wryly, ignoring how hoarse he sounded.

“Yup,” Prompto confirmed with a proud nod. After a last glance at his handiwork, he flipped the camera around to show him the screen. “What do you think?”

Leaning over the display and using a still trembling hand to shield it from the light, Noctis couldn’t help smiling a bit. It was impossible to make out his own face in the photo; actually, his entire figure was shrouded in shadow with the sun mounted between him and Longwythe. No one who didn’t know him would have any idea—he could have been anyone, just wandering around watching the start of a new day.

He could have been _anyone_ , not some coward who was too scared to leave home.

He could have been Gladio: strong and dependable and ready to take on anything. He could have been Ignis, with his vast appreciation of the simple things because they eased the weariness of a life full of complications. He could have been Nyx, a friend so brave and loyal that he’d gone running out in the middle of the night to save some stupid kid who should have stayed where he was supposed to be.

But he was just Noctis, and today, that felt like enough.

Today, he could look back over at the mountain that had played a prominent role in everything he’d feared for years and _breathe_. He could examine the ground where he had once seen a monster and know that that was a long time ago, that the creature was gone and couldn’t hurt him again. It probably wouldn’t be enough to keep his mental daemons at bay; he didn’t think he’d ever be rid of the visions that came to him at night when he wasn’t conscious enough to combat them.

That didn’t negate the way his muscles lost their rigid set and his face relaxed into a small, slightly embarrassed smile when he glanced over to see Prompto scrutinizing his photograph. Maybe he didn’t know it, but if it hadn’t been for him, Noctis wasn’t sure how long he would have avoided this. If it hadn’t been for him, the prospect of what was waiting out here might have kept him trapped at the outpost forever.

Because of Prompto, Noctis could go home with a smile on his face and see pride in his uncle’s eyes. He could call Ignis and Gladio and tell them that he’d _done it_ —that he’d faced his fears and, although he’d had moments of weakness where all he wanted was to turn back, he _hadn’t_.

That, too, was enough. Not just enough—it was _everything_.

“Hey, Prompto,” he murmured, eyes finding the sun once more.  

“’Sup, buddy?”

“…Thanks.”


	17. The Shakedown

Gladio glared out of the passenger window, arms folded over his chest and wishing for all the world that he didn’t have to put up with this shit today. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Noct—that was normally the highlight of his month, not that he’d ever let on. Now that he was working full time with the Crownsguard, he was lucky to get a day to just relax, so hanging around Hammerhead was perfect. He’d have Ignis and Noct to talk to, and the most effort he’d have to exert was getting the latter to pick up a stick and try to hit him with it. (It didn’t sound like much, but Noct had zero inclination to fight no matter how many barbs Gladio threw at him. Given the fact that he was supposed to be training the prince so that he would be prepared by the time he returned to the Crown City, it was more than a little aggravating.) Besides that, though, Gladio generally thought of their trips to the outpost as a vacation of sorts.

So, the absolute last thing he wanted to do was be on his guard the entire time.

They didn’t have a whole lot of choice in the matter, so he was using the ride to gripe about it before he’d have to do the mature thing and bite his tongue. As much as he hated that he’d practically be on duty all day, his own misgivings weren’t enough of a reason to put a damper on Noct’s mood.

Gladio had to admit, he’d been pretty damn proud when the prince called to tell him that they’d made it back from Longwythe in one piece. None of the excuses Noct had given beforehand could convince him that it was a good idea; to use one of Ignis’s favorite words, it seemed foolhardy to wander out of Hammerhead on their own when the sun hadn’t come up yet. Honestly, Gladio didn’t care one bit if the daemons had been quiet lately, just like he didn’t give a shit if Nyx _was_ following them every step of the way. He’d spent hours mulling over the thought that _he_ should’ve been there, that it was his job to protect Noct and the prince was running off to get himself killed over…a photo? Really? It just didn’t seem worthwhile to him.

Of course, Ignis had berated him for his lack of faith while they waited for the phone to ring—the hypocrite. His mouth sure talked a big game when he thought Gladio didn’t notice the way he kept checking for missed calls and texts. They both had, though, so he couldn’t say much there. If not for the realization that they never would have made it in time, Gladio would have finished his training—or, to Noct’s knowledge, his _jog_ —earlier and floored it all the way to Hammerhead. Instead, Cor had dressed him down quite thoroughly for breaking three of the practice dummies in his preoccupation with wondering where the hell Noct was and wishing Ignis would stop offering platitudes. Yeah, he knew it would probably be fine; he was well aware that Noct wasn’t alone and that Nyx was capable of taking care of far worse things than they would be likely to find on their way to the mountain. That didn’t change the fact that waiting for news felt like having a tooth pulled. Actually, Gladio would have preferred the latter.

Don’t get him wrong: he was glad that Noct had finally found whatever courage he’d lost as a kid. Watching that get drained out of him was torture, and Gladio had wished on numerous occasions that there was something he could do to drag him out from behind the wall he’d built between himself and the rest of the world. Nothing he or Ignis tried had worked so far, not tempting Noct with escorted visits to see Nyx or soliciting a ride once they were old enough to drive. Hell, they had invited him to come to Insomnia once, more as an experiment than a genuine offer given that he was supposed to be staying away from the Crown City for a few years yet. It was heartbreaking to see the way Noct’s eyes lit up with excitement at the mere notion only for his expression to shutter half a second later with his noncommittal promise to _think about it_. That had never happened.

So, yeah, Gladio wasn’t bemoaning the blessing that was Noct gradually finding his footing again. That was good news—and long overdue.

The real problem here? That _Prompto_ guy was the one behind it all. They hadn’t even met yet, but Gladio was already positive he didn’t like the kid. On paper, he didn’t have any justification for it, as Ignis had constantly reminded him since Noct indirectly pointed out that he wanted them all to meet on their next trip to the outpost. Personally, Gladio thought evidence was a moot point; it wouldn’t change how something about just the _idea_ of Prompto gave him a bad feeling. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, especially when he hadn’t gotten a good look at the guy, but he had resolved to keep a close eye on him for anything that seemed off. Besides, wasn’t it his job to gather intel on potential threats to Noct’s safety? They were piling up like crazy, even though no one else seemed to share his opinion. If he were Ignis, he would have started a stupid list:

Shows up out of nowhere.

Underage and on his own.

No family history—or _any_ history.

Convinces the prince to leave the safety of the outpost for some stupid goddamn picture.

When Gladio put it all together, it made him bristle with distrust. The kid’s background check had come up so empty that a Niff’s head had more to carry. That, at least, had set off enough alarm bells in the king’s mind to take a few extra precautions. While Cor and half the Crownsguard had gone digging all around Lucis to find any mention of this _Prompto Argentum_ character, Nyx and Cid had been watching him and every move he made in Noct’s general vicinity. So far, there hadn’t been anything negative to report; according to their Glaive on the ground, Prompto was as normal as normal could be, barring his oddly vague origins. If anything, he seemed about as remarkable as anyone else who passed through Hammerhead on a daily basis: just a random kid who was good at fixing cars and liked playing with cameras. Move along—nothing to see here.

Gladio didn’t buy it.

There were certain things that came with the territory when you were groomed to be the future king’s Shield. Spotting enemies in the shadows and ulterior motives behind smiles were close to the top of the list; Gladio was so used to looking for signs the eye couldn’t see that he did it without thinking these days. When Noct had called to tell him about his uncle’s new tenant-slash-employee? Yeah, that hadn’t sat right with him at all. With each progressive call, whether to himself or Ignis, Noct had given him more to be suspicious of until he wasn’t sure why no one else was willing to take action.

Well, admittedly not _no one_. King Regis had been very clear before they left the Citadel that morning: although he had no reason to _distrust_ Prompto, there was also little evidence to prompt the opposite. Whatever intelligence they were able to gather that would assist him in erring to one side or the other would be welcome—as if Gladio hadn’t already planned on doing just that and reporting back on the little creep immediately. There would be no second chances here, no redeeming himself if he slipped up. One convenient omission, one white lie, one _hair_ on Gladio’s neck standing up and it would be over. He’d drag the kid back to Insomnia with him to spend the rest of his days languishing in a cell somewhere before he’d let a potential threat remain in such close quarters to Noct. Maybe he hadn’t used those exact words when they’d reassured the king, but he’d been thinking them all the same.

“The volume of your disdain is deafening,” Ignis sighed into the relative silence of the car. Besides the hum of the engine, it had been quiet almost since they departed. Leave it to Ignis to read a mood when there weren’t even any words to go by.

Gladio settled deeper into his seat as he retorted, “Gonna be a lot louder pretty soon.”

“Perhaps it would be wiser to approach the situation with some semblance of civility?”

“Ain’t that _your_ job?”

Were it not for the fact that he was driving, Ignis would undoubtedly have leveled him with his most scathing, unimpressed look. “My job is also to read the _facts_ , as is yours.”

“I am,” Gladio grunted, “and this kid’s dirty. I can sense it.”

“Your well of knowledge is astounding, Gladio. One should think you ought to have gone into fortune-telling.”

“Ha ha,” he mocked with a roll of his eyes. The tiny smirk Ignis had been wearing faded into something more pensive—never a good thing.

“It’s not that I don’t agree. The situation is… _odd_ , make no mistake.”

“You can say that again.”

“However,” he continued as though Gladio hadn’t spoken, “His Majesty agrees that this is a delicate situation. Whatever Prompto’s motives, for good or ill or mere coincidence as it seems, Noct has grown fond of him. We must proceed with caution.”

Snorting, Gladio gruffly demanded, “You think I don’t know that?”

Ignis didn’t immediately answer, clearly thinking over his words in that way he had of overanalyzing everything when he wasn’t sure how his opinion was going to be received.

_This oughta be good._

When he finally did spit it out, he was carefully deliberate. “It is merely that I believe your dedication to Noct’s safety might blind you to other matters regarding his emotional well-being.”

Oh, so _that_ was why he had to make a game plan before he just got to the damn point. Gladio didn’t think he was _terrible_ when it came to the wishy-washy stuff, but…it just wasn’t his thing. No matter how much Ignis and Noct liked to tease him for how he acted with his sister (Iris did _not_ have him wrapped around her finger—he _liked_ doing stuff for her and managed to find the time in his busy schedule, that was all), he would _never_ be the guy anyone came to for deep, existential conversations. He simply didn’t have the patience for it.

Gladio was a man of action, not words. That was part of what made this dilemma so difficult: what action did you take when it came to someone you couldn’t be sure of?

It was a testament to just how much time they spent together that Ignis didn’t require an answer. That would be useful once Noct was on the throne and they needed to maneuver around each other with the sort of ease his father and King Regis had perfected, but right now, it was just plain annoying.

“It may not be your area of expertise, but it _is_ something to take into account,” he observed in the same cautious, gently reprimanding tone. Gladio had to work hard not to roll his eyes again, not when he knew Ignis was trying to make things easier in his own way.

“I _have_ taken it into account, and I still don’t like it.”

“I’m aware.”

“It’s just that we have no idea where this clown came from or what it is he wants,” Gladio burst out, the silence from earlier shattering as his feelings on the matter finally exploded on the surface. “Somethin’ about this just stinks, I’m telling ya.”

Ignis nodded. “That may very well be. However, we cannot allow ourselves to forget that Noct is isolated in Hammerhead. If Prompto’s motives are as pure as they seem, then it would behoove us not to chase him off prematurely. Having a friend close by when we can’t be is a boon, not a detriment.”

What Gladio wanted to say was that their absence didn’t mean a damn thing when it came to Noct’s safety. There was no way that they could be at the outpost as often as they’d like, not when he and Ignis had all sorts of duties at the Citadel to keep up with in preparation for the day when Noct would return. Besides, their exiled prince had his own affairs to worry about, what with finishing his education and such. He even had a job now, meager as it was, so their time together would have been limited even if they _could_ make it out to Hammerhead more frequently.

Did that mean he was going to let some stranger with unknown motives move in and keep Noct company?

_Hell no._

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t have friends,” Gladio pointed out. What small amount of energy he wasn’t using to keep from being rude to the one ally he had in this operation was being put to work in holding back a cringe—he _hated_ these kinds of conversations. “Just think we should be a little more picky about _who_.”

“And if it turns out that Prompto is _not_ an adequate candidate, I will wholeheartedly agree,” answered Ignis with a resolute nod.

“And kick his scrawny ass right on outta there.”

“…Perhaps we should reserve any rash action for _after_ we have briefed His Majesty.”

Damn. Well, it was worth a shot anyway.

In spite of Ignis’s reassurances that they were on the same side, Gladio couldn’t help the way his mood dipped even further when they pulled into the parking lot of the garage. The object of his distrust was sitting outside with Noct, talking and gesturing animatedly while the latter watched with an amused expression. Nothing about the scene should have set him on edge so thoroughly, but Gladio wasn’t about to question it. His instincts were honed for just this purpose; ignoring them wasn’t something he was in the practice of doing, nor was he planning on starting anytime soon. Rather, he took the opportunity to survey Prompto more closely than he’d be able to get away with once the car door no longer separated them.

He had to admit, the kid’s physique didn’t exactly scream _danger_. Prompto was roughly the same size as Noct, which meant Gladio could crush him with one fist. That much was at least a bit comforting.

Unlike Noct, however, he exuded energy that gave Gladio a headache before he’d gotten close enough to hear him. The hell did he have under his clothes—a motor? It was like he was in motion even though he was sitting still; Gladio was too well trained not to follow every movement, but it was a close thing. How Prompto wasn’t exhausted after just one sentence was a mystery in itself.

If his constant gestures annoyed Noct at all, he did a damn good job of not showing it. Gladio never would have had the patience for it if it were him.

Ignis, on the other hand, was practically a saint. He adopted an air of complete ease as he slipped the keys into his pocket and stepped outside, fully expecting Gladio to follow him if he read the sidelong glance he received correctly. It still took a second for him to do so with a sigh.

_Here we go._

“Hey,” Noct called to them as they approached the garage. Gladio didn’t try to quash the twinge of satisfaction he felt when the prince’s gaze warmed at the sight of them in a way it hadn’t when Prompto had been monopolizing his attention.

The smart thing to do was let Ignis make the first move, so Gladio merely folded his arms with a nod in greeting before setting his sights on Prompto. The latter at least had the sense to look mildly intimidated, which was definitely a step in the right direction.

If Ignis knew what he was doing behind his back, then he chose to ignore Gladio’s silent show of strength and instead replied, “Apologies for the delay. _Someone_ had to run a few errands this morning.”

_Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?_

“Really?” Noct smirked at Gladio, a knowing little gesture indicative of the teasing to come.

Attempting to head it off, he forced his attention away from the fourth wheel of their group to mutter, “Shit’s gotta get done, and someone’s gotta do it.”

Nodding slowly, the prince inquired, “So, what did Iris want this time?”

“None of your business,” Gladio retorted precisely as Ignis answered, “A bridle for her stuffed chocobo.”

Noct burst into laughter, just as he’d expected. Even Prompto mustered a smile despite the obvious distance he was keeping from them; it promptly vanished when Gladio glared in his direction. Maybe Ignis had noticed his posturing after all, because he wasted no time in steering the situation from bad to worse.

“She was insistent that it is impossible to ride a creature twice her size without the proper accoutrements.”

Before Noct had a chance to say anything that might make Gladio rethink the whole _protecting_ thing, Prompto blurted out, “Dude, they make those?!”

The pure, unadulterated awe on his face was…unsettling. Not because it was weird or anything—it just grated on Gladio’s nerves that he could look like a kid in a candy shop over something as simple as his kid sister’s stupid toy.

“They do, indeed,” Ignis confirmed, utterly unruffled since it wasn’t _his_ sibling to get embarrassed over. To Noct, Prompto could have pointed out that the sky was blue for all he seemed to care, meaning that annoying level of enthusiasm had to be normal.

_Great._

“They come in all kinds of colors, too,” he explained to their interloper, whose jaw dropped in excitement.

“That is _so cool_!”

In truth, it was nothing special. They were all over the place in Insomnia and had been for as long as Gladio could remember. His dad had never gotten him one, but then again, he really didn’t have a lot of time for playing as a kid. He was constantly training and preparing for his role as Noct’s Shield, whereas Iris had more of a chance to enjoy normal stuff. Most people would say she was the lucky one, yet none of that really appealed to Gladio anyway. That was why he was currently cataloging Prompto’s every feature, every movement, even the tone of his voice. Any of it might give him a clue as to who the hell this stranger was supposed to be and whether he posed a threat to Noct—and _that_ was more productive than any stuffed toy.

Even if it was kinda cute when Iris pretended to ride around on it (or, more accurately, made Gladio drag it around with her on its back).

Fortunately, it was Noct who took pity on Gladio, if it could be called that. A subject change was definitely in order, although he couldn’t say that he was ready for the inevitable introductions that Noct had in mind.

“By the way, guys, this is Prompto,” he pointed out as if he hadn’t talked about him at length to both of them. Gesturing in their direction, Noct added, “And this is Ignis and Gladio.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Prompto,” Ignis automatically greeted him, going straight into _Royal Ass Kisser Mode_.

As much as Gladio hated when he did that, Prompto was infinitely worse. It was almost cringeworthy how _sincere_ he sounded when he replied, “You guys, too! Noctis, like, _always_ talks about you.”

“Not _always_ ,” grunted Noct. The way he suddenly found his shoelaces to be the most fascinating thing in the world sort of worked against him, and after the whole Iris situation, Gladio was more than happy to capitalize on it.

“What?” he asked with a devilish grin. “You miss us that bad?”

“Only your stupid jokes,” Noct countered, not missing a beat.

Snorting, Gladio shot back, “Not my fault you don’t understand ‘em.”

The raised eyebrow and deadpan expression he earned for that more than answered, but Noct decided to do it anyway. “Or they just suck.”

“Not as bad as Iggy’s puns.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Ignis’s irritation was somewhat undermined by the exasperation hovering just under the surface. They had this conversation too often for him to be genuinely put out by it, but that didn’t stop him from retorting, “Rather than behaving like children, might I suggest we proceed to business? Or were you no longer in need of assistance with your studies?”

Noct cringed at the reminder of schoolwork, much to Gladio’s amusement. What the prince lacked in battle skills, he more than made up for with academics; if he’d gone to a normal school, Crowe was certain he would have been at the top of his class. There were still occasions when he hit a roadblock, though, and then it was Ignis to the rescue.

Well, mostly.

“Or we could _not_ do that and have some fun while you guys are here,” the prince offered as a counter proposal. From the twitch at the corner of Ignis’s jaw, Gladio could tell that he was biting back a remark about priorities and all that shit.

Prompto apparently thought Noct’s idea was the better of the two, because he slapped the latter’s arm and chimed in, “Dude, did you tell them about the new _Justice Monsters_ machine at Takka’s?”

“Of course,” scoffed Noct as if the idea that he _wouldn’t_ tell them something was absurd.

“We could totally hog it—highest score wins!”

“So, not you.”

Glaring at him in a scandalized sort of way, Prompto evaded, “Nuh-uh, you _so_ cheated that one time.”

“Pretty sure it’s called _skill_.”

“Not when you bump a guy’s elbow when he’s _just_ about to score a winning combo!”

“Accidents happen.”

Gladio watched the exchange with a growing sense of dread. Damn, he’d known that Noct was too nice for his own good, but he hadn’t expected him to go and make _friends_ with this kid so quick. Acquaintances, sure—but _friends_? How the hell was that going to work if they found a valid reason to escort Prompto out of Hammerhead for good? He didn’t want to think that Noct would hate them for it, not after all they’d been through, yet it wouldn’t be as simple as telling him it was all for the best either.

_This guy’d better be on the level._

A quick, dark glance at Ignis told him that the latter was thinking along the same lines. Friends or not, they were tasked with protecting Noct and making sure he made it to the day he would take the throne—preferably a lot longer than that. Wild cards weren’t acceptable no matter how fond of them he was.

As much as Gladio didn’t want to accept it, the easy camaraderie between Noct and Prompto was hard to miss over the couple of hours they spent playing games at the diner. He was used to a quieter prince, one who came alive when he and Ignis showed up and retreated to his private bubble while they were gone. This Noct wasn’t _different_ , per se, but there was something about him that appeared less weighed down with the isolation they all knew he felt at the outpost. He and Prompto teased each other endlessly about things the prince had mentioned over the phone and even some stuff that Gladio hadn’t heard of, including an apparently embarrassing incident that involved Cindy and a blow torch. (He honestly didn’t _want_ to know more about what had happened there.) When it wasn’t his turn to show those two knuckleheads how to win, Gladio stood off to the side and merely observed them trading barbs and competitive jabs as if they’d been doing it their whole lives.

Despite his misgivings, despite the fact that annoying whines and sarcastic jokes didn’t give Gladio nearly enough to trust the guy just yet, he had to smile a little now and again. In any other situation, he would have said that Prompto was good for Noct. That explosive personality of his forced the prince out of his shell, and that could only bode well for someone who had spent most of his formative years with a stuffed animal for a friend.

Honestly, he would have felt better about the entire situation if it weren’t for Ignis casting suspicious glances at Prompto’s right wrist from where he was camped out at a booth nearby. At first, Gladio couldn’t figure out what he was seeing; every time he tried to follow his gaze, all he found was a series of stupid belt-like wristbands that were almost tacky enough to suit the travesty of an outfit Prompto had decided to put on that morning. The studs on the outside had Gladio making a mental note to tell Cor _not_ to let this kid work on his car the next time he brought it by.

Just as that thought registered, it happened. There was a slight shift of Prompto’s wrist as he hit the button on the side of the machine, and Gladio spied a hint of ink hidden beneath his accessories. It wasn’t long enough for him to get more than a glimpse let alone tell what it was, but Ignis’s grim frown had him betting it wasn’t good.

“Hey, big guy,” Noct called over to him, oblivious of his newfound sense of unease. “Your turn.”

Exchanging a look with Ignis to let him know that yeah, he’d seen it too, Gladio stepped up to the machine with a muttered, “Right.”

He could live with the way they ragged on him after he got the lowest score of this round. There were bigger things to worry about than a game now.

The question was how he could approach the situation without just throwing Prompto to the ground, ripping off his wristbands, and demanding to know what his tattoo meant. For all they knew, it was nothing but a dumb kid’s idea of a cool design. Given that this guy was some kind of wannabe artist, Gladio wouldn’t have put it past him to pick something far less meaningful than the eagle Gladio had sported across his back and arms ever since he officially joined the Crownsguard and came one step closer to his destiny. It would admittedly be pretty humiliating if he took the aggressive route only to find that it was a chocobo or a moogle or some shit.

It turned out that he didn’t get a chance to either assault or interrogate Prompto at the diner. Doing so in front of Noct would only end in a fight they didn’t need, especially not when they saw each other so infrequently as it was. The last thing Gladio wanted to do was make him feel like he had to choose sides when he was clearly excited to have found a friend to add to their group, so he held his tongue and put up as normal a front as he could until Ignis wisely reminded them that he needed time to cook dinner if they were planning to eat tonight.

All the way back to the apartment, Gladio tried to catch another glimpse of that tattoo with no luck. Whenever he thought he spotted it, Prompto would move his wrist or put his hand in his pocket, effectively cutting off his line of sight. At this rate, it was beginning to look like tackling him was the way to go if Gladio planned on figuring out what he was supposed to be looking for.

Fortunately, Ignis was here, and he was already ten steps ahead of the rest of them.

“Gladio, would you be so kind as to see if Takka has a fresh supply of ulwaat berries he would not be averse to parting with?” he inquired innocently from the kitchen, his back to the rest of them as he began setting out ingredients for whatever masterpiece he was going to impress them all with this time.  

“You got it.” It was all Gladio could do not to smirk as he turned to Prompto and jerked his head towards the door. “What’s say you and me raid the fridge at the diner, huh?”

Noct snorted, already moving to follow them. “He does that enough on his own.”

“Dude, that was _one time_!” Prompto exclaimed just as Ignis turned stop Noct with a hand on his shoulder.

“I do believe that _now_ would be the appropriate time to finish your homework.”

_Ooh, he’s good._

So good, in fact, that Noct didn’t seem to find it strange at all that Gladio was taking Prompto while he was being kept at home. It was proof of how much he trusted them that he didn’t sense anything suspicious in that, particularly when Gladio had spent the whole day looking at Prompto as if he might spontaneously combust at any moment. And that was just classic Noct: trying to see the best in everybody, including Gladio, whether they deserved it or not. This instance was no different, and if he had any inkling of what Ignis was planning with that little excuse, he covered it with a well-timed groan.

“Can’t I just call you tomorrow or something?”

“It’s far simpler to assist when I am here,” Ignis berated him lightly. “There is only so much I can do over the phone.”

His logic wasn’t lost on Noct, and he knew well enough not to cross Ignis when he was adamant that his studies needed to come first. So, as much as he grumbled about how _Specs is way too uptight_ , he didn’t push back. Instead, the exchange had the desired effect: while he went to grab his books from his room, Gladio led Prompto out of the apartment and shut the door resolutely behind them.

Once they were alone, the motor that ostensibly powered Prompto’s mouth appeared to run out of fuel. That wasn’t too surprising when they’d had Noct to facilitate what passed for conversation thus far; on their own, there really wasn’t anything to talk about.

Almost.

With Noct safely tucked away where he wouldn’t hear how ugly this discussion might get, Gladio felt no reservations in doing what needed to be done. Even Cid, who glanced up from the car he was working on as they passed, offered him a quick nod of understanding when he noticed that it was just the two of them. The guy was a hick, but he was pretty damn smart—that, or he’d simply been taking care of Noct for so long that suspicion came naturally to him. Whatever it was, he didn’t say a word in protest as Gladio followed Prompto out of the garage and turned towards the diner.

Glancing once over his shoulder, he stopped before they had gone far enough for anyone to see them from the apartment windows and called, “So, what’s your story?”

Turning around, Prompto eyed him with a curious—and carefully blank—gaze. “Uh…didn’t Noctis already tell you?”

“He told me what he knows,” answered Gladio with a shrug. “That ain’t everything, though.”

There was a moment where he honestly wasn’t sure _what_ Prompto was thinking, and if it weren’t absolutely necessary that they divide and conquer on this one, he would have wished Ignis had come with him. He was the one who could read people like a book, after all; Gladio was better at the simple stuff, like knowing when someone was hiding something or lying to him.

Prompto ticked off both boxes when he shook his head and replied, “That’s pretty much all I got.”

_Okay, no beating around the bush, then._

“Like hell it is,” he growled, grabbing the collar of Prompto’s shirt. The latter sputtered incoherently as Gladio half led, half dragged him towards the back of the garage where their voices wouldn’t be as likely to carry up to the apartment. He didn’t want to be interrupted right now.

Maybe it was going overboard to slam Prompto up against the side of the building with his hands still fisted in his shirt, but at this point, Gladio was past caring. He’d had to watch this little cretin make nice with Noct all day and stand by while he insinuated himself into the prince’s limited circle of friends—all so he could flat out _lie_ about where he’d come from and why he was here? No way. That drove Gladio over the edge of his frayed patience, and he’d already been hovering there ever since he heard about the guy over the phone a few weeks ago. It was time for some answers, and if Prompto thought Gladio was going to let Noct’s feelings keep him from getting them, he was sorely mistaken. He’d drag the kid’s ass back to Insomnia and let the king deal with him if it meant keeping Noct safe.

It was with that thought in mind, that solemn vow, that Gladio gave Prompto a shake for good measure and demanded, “You’re gonna tell me where the hell you came from. _Now_.”

“D-Dude, seriously, I already t-told him everything!” he stammered, hands coming up to grip Gladio’s wrists. At least he was smart enough not to try to extricate himself; that would just make the situation worse.

Scoffing, Gladio leaned in close and spat, “All you said is you’ve been walkin’ all over Lucis looking for a stupid picture. That ain’t gonna cut it.”

“But th-that’s what I was doing!”

“Maybe, but you got a lot of holes in that story. Better start filling ‘em in before I decide to plug that hole in your face.” To emphasize his intent, he kept a firm grip on Prompto with one hand and pulled the other back into a fist. He hadn’t thought the kid’s eyes could go wider, but apparently he was wrong. 

“Whoa, easy there, tough guy!”

“I’ll go easy when you start _talkin’_.”

“Talking about _what_?!”

Finally losing what tenuous grasp on control he’d been clinging to, Gladio reached for Prompto’s right arm and tore off his wristbands with one fluid motion. The latter squawked in mingled indignation and something that sounded a hell of a lot like fear—which Gladio could understand as soon as he snatched Prompto’s arm to get a good look at…

A barcode tattoo.

_Goddamn it._

“Maybe you could start with _this_.” Gladio thrust Prompto’s wrist in front of his eyes with a victorious yet venomous glare.

The latter merely stared at it, swallowing hard.

Unfortunately for him, Gladio wasn’t in the mood for any more games, particularly not the waiting one. He merely squeezed Prompto’s arm in his fist until he winced in pain and remarked scathingly, “Not every day you see a Niff soldier in Lucis.”

That seemed to loosen Prompto’s tongue, and he hastened to issue an almost predictable denial: “I’m not a Niff!”

That wasn’t worth answering, and they both knew it. It had taken him a little longer than Ignis to figure it out, but now that the truth was staring Gladio in the face, everything seemed so obvious. Evading conversations about his past, _happening_ upon Noct in Hammerhead, pushing him to leave the safety of the outpost—it all pointed to an answer Gladio had expected, even if he’d hoped he might be proven wrong. A Niff in disguise, and a young one at that, who could slip past all the defenses King Regis had put into place when the prince left the Citadel. They were just lucky that Gladio was figuring it out before he had a chance to do some lasting damage.

A part of him wanted to stomp back into the garage and ask Cid how he hadn’t noticed sooner. Hell, even Nyx should have had more to say about this; it wasn’t like the Niffs kept their methods some big secret. The fact that they branded their soldiers was well documented, and more than one nation had railed against their practices as inhumane when there were far less intrusive methods of maintaining accurate records. If you worked for the Kingsglaive, you had badges for that—the hunters had dog tags. Niffs? Yeah, it figured that they would choose the creepiest, most disgusting path available.

Someone should have noticed. The fact that it had taken _Ignis_ to spot the anomaly was unacceptable, and more than anything, Gladio wanted to pummel the little shit into the ground and then go find everyone else who was tasked with Noct’s protection to do the same to them. It made sense for their absent prince to miss that detail: unless he’d happened across the information somewhere, it was highly unlikely that he would have any idea what that tattoo meant if he saw it. Admittedly, Gladio noticed that there was something a little different about this one compared to the normal variety he’d seen in intelligence photographs, but it was a familiar enough pattern not to be immediately overlooked.

What, then, had led Nyx to write it off as something that wasn’t a cause for concern? He was still digging into the kid’s past as much as he could with the resources available to him in Hammerhead, and Gladio thought too highly of his abilities to believe that he had missed the marking altogether. There had to be a reason he was ignoring it, or at the very least not bothering to make a big deal of it.

And Gladio was going to find out.

“If you’re not a Niff, then what’s this for?” he hissed with a pointed glance at where he was still holding onto Prompto’s arm in a viselike grip.

Frantically shaking his head, Prompto insisted, “It’s not what you think.”

“Really? ‘Cause right now, it looks a hell of a lot like you’re an enemy combatant hiding out near the Crown City.”

That was as good an excuse as any, he supposed. If this guy really had been sent by the empire, then Gladio was positive that he was aware of Noct’s identity. Regardless, he wasn’t about to spill the beans. Let Prompto think he was worried about his proximity to the capital—that was better than putting Noct in the line of fire. Gladio would rather find out just how much he knew first.

Whatever hope he had that his unasked question would be answered by Prompto’s reaction was dashed when the latter deflated beneath his sharp gaze. It had looked for a moment as though he was going to stick to the same line he’d been feeding Gladio for the last couple of minutes, but he appeared to think better of the idea when he realized that he would be well and truly screwed if he tried it. Anyone with a lick of sense would have to know that now wasn’t the time for useless excuses.

Thankfully, Prompto wasn’t the idiot Gladio had mistaken him for at first glance.

“O-Okay,” he mumbled, eyes dropping to the ground at their feet. “I’ll tell you, but… _please_ don’t tell Noctis.”

“I ain’t makin’ any promises,” grunted Gladio. Confident that he could thwart any attempt at a daring escape, he roughly released Prompto’s shirt and folded his arms in a way Ignis said made him seem more intimidating. “Out with it.”

A few seconds passed before he started talking, and it took every bit of self-control Gladio had been taught in training not to use a little more physical persuasion to speed up the process. That was supposed to do wonders for people who had something to say but simply couldn’t seem to get it past their lips. Ignis might be the one who was good at talking circles around you until you gave up what he wanted to know, but Gladio could put his muscles to devastating use and achieve the exact same goal. As bad as it would look for him to beat up a kid, he was willing to do whatever was necessary. He’d promised the king some answers, after all.

Just when he was beginning to think that was the only way he was going to extract them, however, Prompto’s eyes darted around to ensure that they were still alone before he quietly admitted, “I came from Tenebrae.”

_…The hell?_

“Nobody comes from Tenebrae. Empire’s had it sealed up tight for years,” Gladio countered without pause.

“ _That’s_ why I haven’t told anybody,” sighed Prompto, looking like he might roll his eyes if it wouldn’t end with a punch to the face. “ _No one_ gets out of there alive. I figured I’d have a better chance if I just kept my mouth shut.”

Okay, he had a point there; Gladio could grudgingly admit that much. Still, it left him with more questions than answers, so they were sort of going backwards here. Time to get back on track.

“If you came from Tenebrae, then what’s with that?” he demanded with a nod towards Prompto’s arm.

He grimaced in something like disgust. “That’s…kinda the reason I needed to get out of there.”

“Meaning?”

Prompto’s fingers traced along the barcode seared into his wrist as he shrugged, and Gladio could tell it was a struggle for him to meet his eyes. Under different circumstances, it would have been impressive that he mostly managed it.

“Dude, you know what the empire’s about. It’s all military _this_ and kill stuff _that_. Doesn’t matter if you’re a Niff or not—if they don’t have a use for you, you get to be their cannon fodder.”

“And that’s what happened to you,” guessed Gladio tonelessly. Prompto nodded in affirmation.

“Yeah. I wasn’t smart enough for the good jobs, so off to the army it was. That’s why I’ve got this.” He raised his wrist slightly, and the shame with which he stared at his brand spoke volumes of things he hadn’t said. “But I’m not one of them. I’ll _never_ be one of them.”

The same had been said by many over the years, yet Gladio wasn’t optimistic enough to believe that people hadn’t been dragged into the empire’s service regardless. That was neither here nor there, though. If Prompto didn’t _really_ consider himself one of the Niffs, then he wouldn’t mind answering a few more questions.

“So, you ran away instead. How?”

That elicited a bashful half smile as Prompto murmured, “I…had help.”

“Help?” Gladio snorted skeptically. Somehow, that sounded hard to find in Tenebrae these days.

“Helps to have friends in high places, man.”

_Friends in high places? He can’t mean…_

Shaking that distracting thought from his head, Gladio inferred, “And these _friends_ were powerful enough to smuggle you out of Tenebrae without getting caught?”

“So far, anyway.” Prompto paused for a moment before motioning up at the apartment and continuing sheepishly, “That’s why I didn’t tell Noctis. He’s…the first person who was nice to me once I got here. If anyone _did_ come looking, I didn’t want him to get in trouble too. I just thought…it was better if he didn’t know.”

Well, Gladio couldn’t argue there. Not that a bunch of Niffs would really care one way or another if Prompto was being shielded by people who had any idea who he was; they’d slaughter them all with smiles on their faces and cart him back off to Tenebrae or worse. Still, that earned him a few kudos in Gladio’s book, even if there was one last piece of the story that was missing.

So, he raised an eyebrow as he inquired, “And you didn’t think that getting a job with some swanky magazine would attract anyone who might be looking for you?”

Prompto’s lips turned down at the corners, and he scuffed his shoe against the concrete as he muttered, “Uh…yeah…about that…”

“Don’t tell me you lied about that too.”

“I didn’t!” Prompto was quick to reassure him. “That’s more of, like…a job I can do from here? It’s not one of those gigs where I’d get an office or anything. Just snap a shot and send it off to my editor—boom! Easy as that.”

“Which means you’d be staying in Hammerhead for a while,” Gladio clarified, although it was hard not to say _forever_ instead. The thought wasn’t quite as off-putting as it had been earlier that day, but he couldn’t say he relished the idea of having Prompto around every time he and Ignis came to visit either.

He must have mistaken Gladio’s lack of enthusiasm for uncertainty, however, because Prompto automatically replied, “That’s kinda the plan now. Like, I know I can’t work at the garage forever—Cid would skin me alive! But once I’ve got some gil to my name, I sorta figured I could find a place around here. It’s off the beaten track, and…”

Prompto didn’t have to finish his sentence for Gladio to hear the rest of it: _and Noctis is here_. It _would_ be dumb to leave a place where his one and only ally lived, and if his _friend_ in a high place was who Gladio suspected, then he’d probably gotten a few hints about where he’d find a safe spot to settle.

And hell, he was still just a kid. No wonder he’d run.

 _Not so fast_ , he reminded himself sternly. _His story might add up, but the king’s still gotta sign off on him sticking around. Don’t get soft._

“You did good not telling Noct,” Gladio admitted, his expression hard, “but if anyone _does_ come lookin’ for you, you’d better be long gone by the time they get here. Got it?”

He might have laid out the welcome mat for all Prompto seemed to register the veiled threat in his words. Nodding emphatically, his face broke into a grin as he swore, “Cross my heart and hope to… Uh, anyway, you bet!”

“Anyone ever tell you that you got way too much energy?” Gladio sighed, frowning.

“Only every single day.”

Oh, that was good. At least he was aware of it.

Rolling his eyes, Gladio nodded towards the diner and grumbled, “Should probably get those berries before Specs comes lookin’ for us.”

“He seems like the kind of guy who might make _us_ into dessert,” agreed Prompto as he fell into step beside him. Gladio couldn’t help snorting at that.

“That’s one way of puttin’ it.”

In reality, Ignis was the kind of guy who would forego dessert for the foreseeable future if they didn’t pull their weight, but Gladio didn’t bother pointing that out. After all, he didn’t exactly hold the delay against them this time. When they finally made it back to the apartment, it was to find a hot pot of curry on the stove while he sat with Noct at the table, the dreaded math homework laid out in front of them. In the blink of an eye, the tense acceptance that had settled between Gladio and Prompto seemed to evaporate as the latter bounced over to offer their plunder to Ignis, who thanked him with a pleasant smile that effectively masked the wary glance he shot Gladio. For now, he simply shook his head—nothing to worry about, at least for the moment.

If he was being honest, Gladio had to admit that things were…not _normal_ with Prompto around, but something pretty close. With all his dirty laundry aired, it was easier to see him as just a kid who had wound up in the wrong place at the wrong time. And really, watching him joke around with Noct while the prince gave as good as he got was more bolstering than it had been a few hours ago—all of their interactions were. The way Prompto groaned appreciatively at the taste of Ignis’s cooking, the way Noct rolled his eyes as he absently ran his pencil in nonsensical patterns over his left palm instead of his paper, the way Ignis’s face lit up in surprise when Prompto offered to help him with the dishes… Gladio would never mention it, but he supposed it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

There were still some hurdles to jump through, of course. King Regis would need to hear about what had happened and decide Prompto’s fate; that wasn’t even mentioning the tailspin they’d all be sent into when Gladio informed him that there might be a chance to extract refugees from Tenebrae after all.

Regardless, he felt comfortable enough to answer honestly when they piled into the car for the long drive back to Insomnia and Ignis asked, “Does he pass muster?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, chuckling at Noct and Prompto where they were waving from inside the garage. “For now.”

 

***

 

“Hey. Special delivery.”

Ardyn lifted his head with a smirk at the commodore, who was standing in the doorway of his meager excuse for an office with her usual indifferent expression.

“Excellent,” he purred, holding out a hand for the sizable package she carried. “I was beginning to worry that it had vanished without a trace.”

Commodore Aranea Highwind did not appear to share his relief at having finally received his long-awaited parcel. Rather, she rolled her eyes as though she were speaking to someone much lower in the imperial hierarchy and approached the other side of his desk. If Ardyn weren’t so eager to inspect his delivery, if he did not have matters of greater import to manage, he would have seen fit to remind her that she was as dispensable as the multitudes who followed her every command—she was not so very unlike the emperor in that regard.

Honestly, it never ceased to amaze him that the commodore had been retained for as long as she had. That fool Aldercapt appreciated her ability, and even Ardyn could not deny that her prowess in battle was unparalleled, yet he thought it would have been wiser to choose a minion that was more loyal to Niflheim. There were so many worthy candidates that could be brought up from the dregs of society for the same task; it would take little more than adequate training to make them the sort of puppet Ardyn thought most appropriate for imperial command. In fact, their devotion to the cause would be that much more certain, for they would have no one to thank for their success than the emperor himself. Those were the servants who possessed the most potential. Of that, Ardyn had been convinced on more than one occasion.

The commodore, however, was far too independent for her own good. Such was the risk of hiring an officer of her questionable origins.

“Don’t suppose you’re ever going to share what all these things are?” she asked as she thrust the parcel into his grasp, her resigned tone belying her words.

Ardyn tutted lightly with a patronizing, “Now, now, Commodore. You know as well as I that official business is classified until the emperor authorizes me to disclose it, even to one of your _advanced_ standing.”

Snorting in a manner he considered both indelicate and rather unladylike, she waved him off carelessly and strode towards the door. “None of my business anyway, right?”

 _No, indeed_ , he thought as he watched her disappear into the corridor. This was a matter he reserved for none other than his own eyes; not even the emperor was privy to his regular deliveries.

It was for the best. If he was aware of the knowledge Ardyn had gained or the intelligence he was receiving, then Aldercapt would undoubtedly pressure him to make a move he was not yet prepared for. Over the years, he had grown even more impatient and, if it were possible, less appreciative of the nuances involved in exacting one’s revenge. Truly, what a dull existence.

Ardyn, on the other hand, cherished the finer things in life. Mere mortals were so quick to cast aside what they saw as seemingly minute luxuries, but in his many years, Ardyn had learned to treasure fleeting instants of contentment such as this. In his eyes, the photographs that he slipped from the envelope were worth more than all the gil in the world.

Time had practically flown by since he had stood before the throne of Lucis, tiny babe in hand and the eyes of the king forever etched into his soul. Every moment in between had bestowed upon him its own sort of pleasure, from bringing the young prince low in the dead of night to sending the Fleuret brat to haunt the halls of the Citadel. In those instances, he wished that his retaliation could indeed continue for all time.

Despite the enjoyment he had gleaned from these fifteen long years, however, Ardyn supposed that he should look forward to reaching the climax of his vengeance. All was proceeding in exactly the manner he’d hoped for at the start of this endeavor; Noctis had grown well, just as he predicted. Pose after pose, photo after photo, Ardyn could see his father in him—it was like staring through a window into the past and rediscovering the boy he had watched develop into a worthless, ungrateful monarch. The hatred he felt for this young prince, this _child_ who would no doubt have become the same pitiful wretch as his predecessor had Ardyn not intervened, was all-encompassing.

His disgust merely increased as he flipped through each photograph and saw how those around Noctis fawned all over the boy; that much had remained a constant since he’d begun receiving these parcels not long ago. Ah, there was the one with the spectacles, this time straightening his shirt when it hung lopsided on his shoulders. And there was the giant oaf, an arm around his skinny neck while his hand mussed the prince’s hair. A blond boy dragged him into the frame of one picture, an aging man smiled as though Noctis was the most precious jewel known to man in another, and that upstart marshal pointed at something in the distance that the prince gazed towards in wonderment as Ardyn neared the end of the stack.

It was enough to make one ill.

The last was perhaps the worst of them, yet Ardyn found a smirk stretching across his face as he stared down at it nevertheless. _This_ was what he had been waiting all this time to find, and now it was before him, ready to be acknowledged for what it was.

“Oh, Noct,” he chuckled, running his fingers over the prince’s smiling face and sneering at the little boy who had nearly grown into a man. What a sweet, charming child…

With true love in his eyes.

“Guard,” Ardyn called to the armored soldier stationed at his door, his eyes never once leaving the final key to his success. “Do call Commodore Highwind back. We have matters of business to discuss.”

_Soon, Regis. Soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to take this moment to remind all passengers to fasten their seat belts and keep all limbs inside the vehicle. It's going to be a bumpy ride from here!
> 
> That being said, I just want to take this opportunity to thank those of you who have been following this story so far and any new readers out there. Knowing that you guys are enjoying the story and reading your amazing feedback has been so wonderful, and words can't describe how thankful I am. Thank you so much!!


	18. Aurora Ultima

“Well, if it ain’t the birthday boy!”

Noctis managed to turn his wince into a halfhearted smirk at the last second, not that Cindy was going to care either way. She and Prompto had spent the last couple of weeks accosting him over how he wanted to celebrate what they were calling his _special day_ , as if it were different from any other time. It was nice to know they cared so much, but Noctis had to admit that he wasn’t exactly comfortable being the center of attention. At least it was only one day a year—if it meant seeing smiles on their faces, he figured he could put up with it for twenty-four hours.

“Isn’t it a little late to still be calling me that?” he teased as he descended the rest of the steps from the apartment. Cindy rolled her eyes, swatting him with a rag on his way past.

“Couple hours ain’t gonna change much.”

She didn’t intend it as the reminder it was, but Noctis couldn’t help groaning anyway. “Yeah, tell that to Uncle Cid.”

Of all the people he knew, Cindy was the only one who could understand what he meant by that, and she shot him a sympathetic smile in response. They’d both spent every birthday hearing the same thing, and no matter how many times they argued that it didn’t matter, Uncle Cid never failed to ask whether they felt any different now that they were _technically_ a year older. When he was a kid, Noctis had thought that maybe he was supposed to—something had to change as you grew up, right? According to his uncle, it was mostly just aches and pains once you hit a certain age, but he’d wondered for a while if there was some gradual shift that he would suddenly realize one day when he least expected it.

So far, it hadn’t happened yet. If any birthday was going to make him feel different, though, he would have expected it to be this one. After all, he _was_ coming of age.

Everyone he knew agreed that twenty was kind of a big deal: he was officially leaving childhood behind and becoming a member of the real world and all that garbage adults constantly talked about. Now that Noctis wasn’t a child and understood what came with the territory, he wasn’t sure what all the hype was over. He’d woken up feeling exactly the same as he had when he went to bed the night before, albeit a bit more tired. That had less to do with his age than the nightmares that had returned with a vengeance over the last couple of months, though, so he couldn’t count that.

One thing that _did_ strike him as odd, however, was that he hadn’t run into Uncle Cid for their annual exchange this morning. It was pretty early since Noctis had to be at the diner to open, but that hadn’t stopped his uncle before. If anything, _he_ was the one who could normally boast of having been up for a few hours by this point; in spite of his constant complaints about being _too old for this_ , he beat them all downstairs most days. Still, when Noctis glanced around the garage, it was to find that Cindy was on her own.

“Where is he, anyway?” he asked with a frown.

There was something off about how she shrugged and replied with almost forced nonchalance, “Paw-paw needed a couple more hours’a shut-eye.”

It would be putting it mildly to say that that was kind of strange. _Noctis_ could use a couple more hours of shut-eye—Uncle Cid would be in the garage with the flu in a snowstorm while Niffs banged on the door if he had it his way.

“He all right?”

“Oh yeah, just tired’s all.”

“Right…”

Plastering on a smile that was a bit more genuine, Cindy waved a hand at him and ordered, “You better skedaddle ‘fore Nyx comes lookin’ for ya. Paw-paw’ll be down by the time you get back.”

As much as he would have liked to argue, he had to admit that she had a point there. Nyx wasn’t as big a stickler as Uncle Cid or Cor, but he didn’t go easy on you if you showed up late, either. So, Noctis nodded reluctantly and shot one last glance towards the stairs as if Uncle Cid might appear if he stared hard enough. When he didn’t, and when Noctis noticed Cindy’s knowing look, he offered her a wave and headed out the door.

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was so disappointed. After all, this delayed the awkward discussion about being a year older, and it wasn’t like he wouldn’t see his uncle later anyway. It was just that he’d been so… _off_ for the past few weeks, and Noctis couldn’t help wondering if it was related to his birthday. Maybe _he_ didn’t feel any different, but Uncle Cid might. Noctis didn’t remember there being a whole lot of pomp and circumstance when Cindy had come of age six years ago, though; they’d basically treated the day like any other, only there was cake involved. Uncle Cid hadn’t been remotely teary-eyed at the thought that his sole grandchild was officially an adult, so Noctis didn’t see any reason for him to be bothered today. Still, there was no denying that he’d been behaving strangely in recent weeks—aside from asking Noctis what he might like for the occasion, he really hadn’t mentioned it at all. In years past, his uncle had at least joined in a _little_ when Cindy and Prompto teased Noctis relentlessly about presents and parties and whatnot.

This time, however, something _was_ different. Noctis could see it in his uncle’s eyes whenever they crossed paths these days.  

That wasn’t to say that he couldn’t sense his own tenuous grasp on normality slipping lately. It had nothing to do with his birthday, though, not when this odd sensation had been gnawing at him for a while now. There were moments where it simply felt like there was something crawling around beneath his skin, just waiting to be set loose.

Whatever it was, Noctis was never able to put it into words. All he knew was that he could feel it weighing him down with each step he took towards the diner in the early morning light, as it had been for long enough that he hardly thought anything of it anymore. Despite the milestone they were supposed to be celebrating, he was too young to be suffering some of the bodily weakness that Uncle Cid frequently complained about, so it couldn’t be that. He hadn’t been sick, he hadn’t gotten hurt—he just…didn’t feel _right_. It was like something was missing, something that he kept trying to hunt down in his dreams to no avail. Every night, he found himself wandering down the same strange corridors towards the same confusing goal—a goal he could never quite remember when he woke up, panting for breath and struggling to hold onto whatever dregs of his nightmares deigned to stay with him for those first few minutes. It was no use, though; he could have been trying to hold water for all he could keep it from slipping between his fingers.

Would he ever stop waking up more exhausted than when he went to sleep? Or was he going to be doomed to an existence of half-alertness where it almost seemed like there were voices in his head, whispering secrets he couldn’t make out? He wasn’t terribly curious about what they had to say, yet _not_ knowing was driving him up the wall.

There was a hole in his chest and a creature in his veins, and no matter what he did, Noctis couldn’t seem to get rid of either.

The best he could do was keep his mind off it, and fortunately, the breakfast rush was a pretty effective distraction.

It had been five years since Noctis started working at Takka’s, although it certainly felt like much longer. Admittedly, he didn’t think of his job with quite the same amount of disdain that he had at the beginning; it entailed a lot of hard work, and he had to be proud that he held his own in the kitchen and had reached Nyx-like levels of competence. It still wasn’t what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, but it wasn’t like he had found something else yet.

The older he got, the less he was interested in becoming a hunter anymore. They were great, really—he didn’t think he could handle doing what they did, though. Living on the road, killing whatever creatures had the highest bounty on their heads, constantly putting themselves in danger… Yeah, he was going to pass on that. When he’d said as much to Ignis, the latter had expressed no small measure of relief that he’d decided to find something _more suitable for a gentleman_ , in his words. Noctis had no idea what the hell that meant when he was just a guy from an outpost in the middle of nowhere, but he tried to take it as a compliment.

With hunting stricken from the list, however, his prospective career options were starting to look pretty grim. Uncle Cid _still_ wasn’t pushing him to come up with any ideas, which did nothing to make him feel better about the situation. Shouldn’t he be telling Noctis to figure out what he wanted and get on with his life already? Unless he was holding out hope that he would come work at the garage when he got tired enough of waiting tables to leave the diner—that was always a possibility, if a slim one. Unlike his skills in the kitchen, there was nothing about his ability to work on cars that had changed. Maybe he could function as a bookkeeper or something, but anything more technical than that was just asking for trouble.

So, at Takka’s he stayed for the time being. At least he had Nyx—one of the few constants he had when the rest of his life seemed to be in flux.

Most days, anyway.

From the second Noctis arrived until the diner was almost abandoned after their predictably hectic breakfast hour, Nyx barely said a word. That wasn’t out of the ordinary when they were busy, but once things calmed down, they usually kept up a steady stream of conversation to stave off the boredom that tended to set in. Apparently, that wasn’t going to happen today. Aside from the occasional reminder or request, Nyx mainly communicated through silent gestures or kept to himself. Strangely, he didn’t seem _angry_ about anything, as far as Noctis could tell. Well, except for his typical exasperation at having to get up earlier so he could grab ingredients Takka had forgotten to restock. (Thankfully, Takka never came to Noctis for those tasks, even if he would have done it to save Nyx the trouble once in a while. A _long_ while.) Whatever his problem was, though, it seemed to glue his mouth shut most of the morning.

What was _with_ everybody today? Cindy had been acting strangely, Uncle Cid was sleeping in, and Nyx had nothing to tease him about? Had Noctis woken up in some kind of alternate universe where everyone was the exact _opposite_ of their normal selves or what?

At this point, he was thinking that guess couldn’t be too far from the truth. Whether _he’d_ done something to tick them all off or he was simply catching everyone on a bad day, the radical shift in behavior had Noctis’s nerves fraying quicker than normal. Perhaps that was why he finally bit the bullet and spoke, blurting out the first thing that came to mind as he and Nyx were maneuvering around each other to throw together some desserts for later.

“What the hell is _that_?”

Humming in question, Nyx glanced down at the mixture in his bowl and scowled. “Well, it was _supposed_ to be a chocolate tart.”

“Except you added too much flour?” asked Noctis, already knowing the answer. Given the way Nyx looked askance at him with a wry smile, he probably did too.

“How’d you guess?”

Noctis shrugged. “Guess the student’s surpassed the master.”

That made Nyx laugh, the first pleasant sound that had come out of his mouth all morning. “Don’t forget who _taught_ you that, big man,” he warned, the effect somewhat ruined by his residual chuckles.

“ _Big man_? I’m not Gladio.”

“No,” Nyx admitted, dumping his ruined tart batter into the trash and tossing his bowl in the sink. “Can’t exactly call you _little man_ anymore, though, can I?”

That brought him up short, and for a moment, he didn’t have any answer for that. It was strange: Noctis had been trying to get Nyx to stop calling him _little man_ for _years_. When he was a kid, he’d liked that nickname; it made him feel older and more equal to the task of being one of Nyx’s friends. Ever since he had grown up enough to recognize how patronizing it sounded, however, Noctis had been rebuffing him at every turn. Nyx never gave up, so neither did he.

Now, though, he felt a twinge of sadness at Nyx’s apparent surrender. He still hated that name, but… Well, he was used to it; there was even a small part of him that _enjoyed_ the banter between them whenever Nyx tried to call Noctis something he had clearly outgrown. He couldn’t be serious about ditching the epithet altogether…could he?

From the looks of things, he actually was. Noctis caught a brief glimpse of his face and found the same sad yet accepting expression that Uncle Cid wore every time he commented on how grown up Noctis was becoming. Was _that_ what was wrong with Nyx today? _And_ his uncle?

If he’d known turning twenty was going to make everyone this upset, he wouldn’t have been so quick to wish for it when he was younger.

“It’s not like I’m that much different from yesterday,” he pointed out in his best imitation of Ignis’s _I Am Trying To Be Reasonable_ voice. The words didn’t quite have the same ring to them that they did coming from him, but hey, at least he tried.

“You never know,” countered Nyx with a small, genuine smile. “Coming of age today, graduating to bigger and better things tomorrow.”

Snorting, Noctis muttered into his cake pan, “Pretty sure it won’t come _that_ quick.”

Nyx didn’t reply beyond a thoughtful hum, but it wasn’t like Noctis needed one anyway. They both knew the odds of him getting some miracle offer that would change his life had to be slimmer than looking outside to see that it was raining literal cats and dogs. (He’d been disappointed enough as a kid to know better than to hold out any hope.) Still, Noctis didn’t want to risk sending Nyx back into whatever funk he had been stuck in all morning, so he shrugged a shoulder noncommittally and tried not to argue.

But Nyx was Nyx, so there really wasn’t much point.

“You’ll have a ton of opportunities now that you’re old enough,” he pointed out, practically echoing what Uncle Cid had told him on no less than three million occasions in the last few years.

With a nod that was less in agreement than simple acknowledgement, Noctis murmured, “Maybe.”

“Ignis or Gladio could always set you up with something.”

Sure, they could— _if_ he wanted to live in their shadows for the rest of his life. Noctis had admired Ignis and Gladio ever since they met, and as such, the idea of them getting him a position somewhere was sort of daunting. He’d never live up to their expectations the way they constantly measured up to his; he’d eventually disappoint them, and he was in no rush to do that. Besides, Gladio would be _insufferable_ with his constant reminders of who it was that had gotten him his job. Maybe Noctis couldn’t boast about having secured a spot at the diner on his own, but at least he’d worked to earn it after the fact. That at least counted for something.

And okay, if he was being honest, he had to admit that he didn’t know whether he was ready to leave Hammerhead yet, even if it _was_ for a damn good opportunity. Besides his two absent best friends, everything he knew and loved was here. Uncle Cid and Cindy would never leave the garage, and Nyx would be at the diner until he ran the place at this rate. In spite of all his reminders that Prompto was supposed to be looking for another job, his uncle hadn’t gotten around to giving him the axe (even if Prompto _did_ get paid for sending his pictures to that editor of his in Duscae now); Noctis found that he didn’t know what he’d do without that familiar ball of energy bouncing around all the time.

Opportunities were great and all, but the small, childish part of him that still wanted to cling to home simply wasn’t ready to move on yet.

Noctis was pretty sure that Nyx knew all that, though, so he didn’t bother saying it aloud. They’d had plenty of conversations over the years about his future, particularly in moments when his uncle was just _so_ supportive of him doing absolutely nothing that Noctis felt like he was going to lose his mind—not that Nyx or any of his other friends were much better. Wasn’t _everybody_ meant to tell him that he should find a career and settle in for the long haul? Nope. They didn’t say a word. Even Ignis stayed silent on the topic when Noctis’s frustration forced him to bring it up, oftentimes with a neutral statement about how he’d know when the time was right.

The problem? He had no idea when that was supposed to be and was starting to wonder if there even _was_ a right time and—oh jeez, there it was again—that voice in the back of his head that loved to taunt him lately, to remind him that he was worthless and had nothing going for him. It was always hanging around these days, and no matter how many times Noctis tried to shove it out of his head, there was no denying that it had a point. He wasn’t scared of the outside anymore, not the way he had been as a kid, but that hadn’t prompted him to do anything about finding his place in the world. Coming of age was yet another change that _should_ have pushed him to figure it all out, but the voice in his head was right—he was too big a coward, too much of an idiot, too useless at _everything_ —and that hole in his chest was so _wide_ , so empty, and there had to be something out there to fill it but he just didn’t _know_ , why didn’t he _know_ —

“Noctis!”

Nyx’s sharp exclamation made him jump, yanking Noctis back from an edge he hadn’t realized he’d been hovering over. He didn’t have a chance to consider it too closely, though: a sudden burst of pain erupted in the palm of his left hand and effectively drew his attention away from the seemingly bottomless chasm of hopelessness he’d just about fallen into. Hissing at the sensation, Noctis dropped his knife and…

Wait, when had he picked up his knife again?

He distinctly remembered putting it down when he’d finished chopping the carrots for his absolute _least_ favorite cake (because seriously, who thought that would be a good combination?); even after racking his brains, he couldn’t recall ever picking it up again. It _should_ have been on the cutting board a few feet away, right where he’d left it. Instead, drops of his own blood stained its edge, dripping onto the counter.  

_That’s…weird…_

Chalking it up to his stupid brain distracting him, Noctis shrugged the oddity off in favor of grimacing at the line of red that now marred the center of his palm. The incision didn’t look too deep, but it was just enough to sting if he tried to move his hand. Well, that was going to make getting through the rest of his shift that much more fun…

Noctis was about to head for the back to grab the first aid kit when a dishtowel covered the cut and a familiar hand swiped the knife away from him as though it might attack if not thwarted proactively. When he glanced up, it was to find Nyx staring at him with a mixture of concern and…fear?

“Sorry,” Noctis was quick to apologize, although he wasn’t sure what for. It had been an accident, right? His casual smile must have fallen flat, because Nyx’s expression didn’t ease as he continued, “My hand slipped.”

The tersely muttered, “Sure,” he got in response was skeptical at best.

For a long time, he didn’t say anything else. Try as Noctis might to convince him that he was fine, Nyx silently busied himself with examining the cut as though Noctis had endured some kind of mortal injury. It was borderline embarrassing just how carefully Nyx was scrutinizing his hand, and he was _immensely_ grateful for the fact that the lull between breakfast and lunch meant only a handful of customers trickling in and out. None of them cared about what was happening behind the counter, too concerned with their phones or whatever was on the television to bother watching as Nyx dragged him to Takka’s office to wrap a clean bandage tightly around his palm.

“You need to be more careful,” he sighed. If Noctis didn’t know any better, he would have thought it was his first day again and Nyx was berating him for not being more cautious around a vat of boiling oil. It was a challenge not to show his displeasure at being treated like he was the kid he’d been back then, and Noctis nodded in somewhat grudging acknowledgement to hide his sour expression.

“Won’t happen again.”

He may as well have kept his mouth shut for all that his reassurances seemed to make any difference. Kneeling to survey his handiwork, Nyx merely grunted, “Right.”

There was something in his tone that Noctis didn’t like, a heaviness to his words that never should have been there, and he suddenly got the feeling that it wasn’t his misstep that had Nyx so agitated.

No further explanation was forthcoming, however, and Nyx was quick to steam right past the strangeness of his own behavior as though it wasn’t important. Even so, it seemed to take a lot of effort for him to tear his eyes away long enough to check the clock. When he turned back, there was an oddly blank expression on his face as he suggested, “Why don’t you go on home? I can handle things here until Takka gets back.”

Frowning, Noctis argued, “It’s only eleven. I don’t get off for another hour.”

Nyx simply shrugged as if the idea of breaking his schedule was no big deal, a rather drastic departure from his usual insistence on staying right up until the very last second. “Consider it a birthday present. And besides,” he added in a more playful tone, albeit a slightly forced one, “you’ll just slow me down with that bum hand of yours.”

_Bum hand? Really?_

“At least I didn’t cut it off,” Noctis retorted, rolling his eyes. Nyx smirked at that.

“Good. They call it needing an extra _pair_ of hands for a reason.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Thanks, I know.”

With one last glance at the time, Noctis let his sarcasm drop as he tentatively asked, “You, uh… _sure_ you want me to go?”

“It’s fine,” Nyx reassured him, his smile growing a less thin. “I’ll see you later, anyway.”

“You’re coming for dinner, right?” The idea sent the same little thrill of excitement through him that it always did, even if Noctis couldn’t figure out _why_ for the life of him. Nyx had been at every one of his birthday parties—if they could be called that—since he was about four years old. Maybe it was because he knew Ignis and Gladio had to work and wouldn’t be able to make it, or perhaps he was just glad to see Nyx outside of the diner for a change, but Noctis felt a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth in relief that this, at least, had not changed.

Seeming to sense his thoughts, Nyx clapped a hand on his shoulder before getting up and stowing the first aid kit back where they’d found it in Takka’s desk. “Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll probably be around a little before that, too.”

“Really?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow curiously. If letting Noctis go without finishing his shift was out of character, then _Nyx_ leaving early was practically unheard of.  

“Yeah. The boss is taking over for me, so I’ll stop by in a couple of hours.” Leading the way out front (where no one appeared to have noticed they were even gone— _go figure_ ), Nyx shot him a look and snidely remarked, “Make sure you’re still in one piece when I get there.”

Any other day, Noctis would have responded with a smart comment of his own. The image of Nyx’s face when he’d hurt himself, however, stayed his tongue this time. Today seemed like it was going to be hard on all of them, not just him, so he wouldn’t push it.

Much.

“Easier said than done,” he joked with a wave as he rounded the counter and headed towards the door. He nearly made it before Nyx’s voice stopped him, and when he glanced over his shoulder, it was to see his friend wearing a wistful expression that didn’t quite match his words.

“Hey, Noctis.”

“Yeah?”

A pause, then, “Happy birthday.”

_Ugh, of course._

Noctis _hated_ when Nyx did stuff like that. None of the _three_ people in the diner gave a damn, but it still felt like the entire world was watching him when someone said that sort of thing in public. Regardless, it was the first time Nyx had mentioned it, so he couldn’t just ignore the sentiment even if he wanted to.

Ducking his head, Noctis scratched the back of his neck and mumbled hurriedly to the floor, “Uh…thanks.”

As he whirled around and darted out the door, he could have sworn he heard Nyx’s bark of laughter follow him.

Well, at least he’d waited until Noctis was heading out so that he didn’t give Nyx the satisfaction of knowing that he’d successfully embarrassed him. Given who he was talking about, Nyx would definitely assume that he had—he knew Noctis too well to think otherwise—but still, it was his tiny, futile form of rebellion.

Why did adults have to be like that anyway? They were just so… So… Actually, scratch that—he _was_ an adult now. Great, he couldn’t even make fun anymore because he’d just be insulting himself.

This whole _coming of age_ thing really sucked.

Sighing, Noctis tried not to think about it too hard as he trudged in the direction of the garage. When he’d woken up that morning, his birthday hadn’t been the first thing on his mind—or the second. Now it was all he could think about. He was officially twenty years old; there was no more ignoring the plethora of considerations that accompanied that realization. Being a teenager meant not having to take complete responsibility for what he was doing with his life: there was still time to decide the path he’d take, so he could fall back on the excuse that he was too young to stress about it for the time being. Starting today, however, that was gone. He couldn’t blame a bad attitude on his freaky nightmares or claim that he was biding his time with his job at the diner. It was up to him to make some serious choices, and he had no clue where to even start.

That voice in his head was right, he thought as he scratched anxiously at his bandage. He _was_ worthless. Maybe that was what all those dreams were about—after all, they’d all but replaced the old ones he used to have about daemons in the dark. These days, it was all endless corridors and twisting labyrinths. At one point, when he’d finally gotten annoyed enough to mention them to Ignis, the latter had guessed that it had something to do with the lack of direction Noctis felt manifesting itself in his dreams; once he figured out his goals, he would stop having them.

Somehow, Noctis wasn’t so sure about that anymore. He wasn’t sure about _anything_.

“Duuuude!”

Well, okay, so there were a few things he _could_ be sure of—like one of his three best friends getting _far_ more excited about his so-called _special day_ than he ever would.

Forcing aside his discouragement and pasting what he hoped passed for a smile onto his face, Noctis rolled his eyes at the way Prompto was practically bouncing at the other end of the garage when he walked through the door. It was nice to see that not _everybody_ was in a bad mood.  

For as adamant as he’d been that he would be gone within a few weeks, Prompto hadn’t made much of an effort to leave Hammerhead once he’d gotten settled. Those pictures of Longwythe had indeed earned him the job he wanted with that paper in Duscae, but for some reason, he said he _liked_ living at the outpost and preferred to send in his work rather than move back to the place he’d once hiked through looking for that perfect shot. Noctis didn’t quite get it: for _him_ , Hammerhead was home, so it made sense that he wasn’t exactly aching to leave the way he thought he would when he was a kid. Prompto, however, still got excited over the tiniest things and insisted that there was plenty for him at the outpost without needing more. Given the income from his photos rolling in, he’d been able to buy the caravan where Crowe used to give Noctis his lessons; he even helped out at the garage, free of charge. It was a pretty meager existence, yet he was happy with it all the same.

And wasn’t that a hell of a thing—even _Prompto_ had figured out what he wanted to do with his life, and he wouldn’t come of age for a while yet!

_Just great._

If Prompto guessed that Noctis wasn’t feeling as positive as he was pretending to be, he didn’t say a word about it. That was one thing Noctis had always appreciated about their friendship: Prompto knew when to leave well enough alone. Ignis was the kind of person who would cleverly attempt to circumvent all your excuses to figure out what was wrong, and Gladio’s answer to everything had less to do with venting his frustrations and a whole lot more to do with hitting stuff. Both methods were appropriate in certain circumstances, and he appreciated them regardless of how exasperated he’d get in the moment. There were simply times when he didn’t _want_ to talk about what was wrong or even admit that there was a problem, knowing that things were far worse for other people in his life who had _actual_ concerns on their plates. Those were the moments when it was great to have Prompto around, among others. He’d smile and crack jokes and try to cheer Noctis up, but otherwise, they tended to avoid the really heavy subjects.

And for right now, the heaviest they were apparently going to get was the arm Prompto threw around his shoulders in celebration—sort of.

“It’s Lucis’s newest old man!” he crowed as he jostled Noctis back and forth. It would have been too much to hope that Cindy would step in on his behalf, and sure enough, she kept her head firmly bent over the engine bay of her latest project.

Huffing indignantly, Noctis shoved him aside and rejoined, “I’ll make sure to remind you of that on _your_ birthday _._ ”

“Puh- _lease_ ,” scoffed Prompto with a careless wave of his hand. “ _I’m_ forever young.”

Admittedly, there was no denying that, for better or worse. Noctis wasn’t about to concede that point, however, and decided to divert Prompto’s attention somewhere more enjoyable for _both_ of them.

“Okay, but if I’m old and you’re young, what does that make Gladio?”

“Ancient,” Prompto replied without missing a beat.

With a smirk, Noctis mused, “He’d probably _love_ to hear that.”

It was a testament to how well they’d all gotten to know each other over the years that Prompto didn’t even flinch to hear it the way he had those first few visits. Rather, he snorted and whipped his phone out of his pocket with a mischievous, “I should totally text him, right?”

Noctis paused, humming in thought before deciding, “Wait until tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“I shouldn’t have to clean up the blood on my birthday, right?”

 _That_ did it. As Prompto whined in protest, insisting that he could _so_ take Gladio on if he tried (which was probably the funniest thing he’d said the entire time they’d known each other), Noctis couldn’t help but smile for real. Yeah, the uncertainty of his future seemed to perpetually send him reeling into the doldrums today, but having Prompto around helped. It was impossible not to feel at least a little better about things when he was acting so _normal_ ; even Cindy was chuckling under her breath, and she’d returned approximately _none_ of Prompto’s affectionate advances. No one could keep a straight face around someone like him, though, not even Gladio (and he tried _very_ hard).

 _This_ was what he needed today. _This_ was the kind of birthday that he wouldn’t mind having, regardless of his mixed feelings on the subject: Prompto would finish up what he was doing so they could hang out, Nyx would be over for dinner and probably bring cake with him like he did every year, Uncle Cid would have some goofy present he’d ordered from a store outside Hammerhead because _the hell do you get a kid from a gas station mini-mart_ —his words, not Noctis’s. Tonight, when things were winding down and he had a few minutes to himself, he would get a call from Ignis and Gladio; Cor and Crowe might even shoot him a text. All the people he cared about the most would have a spot in their schedules reserved just for him. Sure, it would make Noctis feel bad that they went out of their way for something as trivial as his birthday, yet he couldn’t deny that the idea made the prospect of being an adult a little easier to bear. It was going to be a good day, itching cut and his own dumb brain notwithstanding. He could ignore those for a few hours—they’d still be there tomorrow.

That was the plan, anyway, and Ignis had warned him plenty of times what happened to even the best laid plans.

“Would you knock off all that racket,” a familiar voice grumbled. “Won’t need that phone’a yours if you keep on like that. He’ll hear you all the way from the Crown City.”

Stretching to see past the yellow blob that was Prompto’s hair (Gladio had come up with no shortage of names for it, much to his chagrin), Noctis spied his uncle glaring down at them from halfway up the stairs to the apartment. Despite what he’d initially thought that morning, a quick glance told him that there wasn’t anything wrong with Uncle Cid—at least, not on the outside. He didn’t look sick; his bent back and wrinkled skin did nothing to defuse his tenacious personality, either. In fact, Noctis could see the gleam in his eyes from here, that vitality and energy that his uncle had never been lacking even if he argued to the contrary.

That wasn’t all he noticed, however. As he’d known for a while now, there was something sad in Uncle Cid’s gaze that Noctis couldn’t decipher when it came to rest on him. All the musings he’d entertained when he left for work returned in that instant, and he had to wonder once again if seeing him as an adult was as hard for his uncle as it was becoming for Noctis the more that he reminded himself of it.

He figured that was all but confirmed when even Prompto couldn’t put a smile on Uncle Cid’s face with his antics. And it wasn’t just him: Prompto must have noticed it too, because he didn’t so much as attempt to come up with one of his trademark smart ass comments in response. Instead, he chuckled bashfully as he stowed his phone and inched back towards the car he’d been working on. Noctis didn’t try to stop him, especially not when he shifted his gaze up to his uncle and witnessed the hard, remorseful expression he wore. For what, he didn’t know, but it was one of those times when he guessed he wouldn’t have to wait long.

He was right. It only took an agonizing second for Uncle Cid to come to terms with whatever had him looking so miserable and mutter, “Gotta show you somethin’ when you got a sec.”

“Y-Yeah,” Noctis immediately answered, already heading for the stairs. “Sure.”

That didn’t seem like the response his uncle had wanted, yet at the same time, relief flashed quickly across his face. Oh yeah, something was definitely up. Noctis just couldn’t make heads or tails of whether it was good or bad. The way things had gone so far today, he was leaning towards the latter.

Regardless, there was no putting off the inevitable, and he would rather let his uncle get this over with—whatever _this_ was. So, mustering what courage he could from Prompto’s bolstering thumbs up, Noctis followed Uncle Cid up the stairs in silence.

For a second, he was hoping that this was simply a trick of some kind, and he would walk into the apartment to find balloons and streamers and people waiting to yell _surprise_. He remembered reading about that sort of thing in kids’ books and thinking it would be so cool to have at the time, although that enthusiasm had transformed into embarrassment over the years until he was quite glad that no one ever tried to throw him a party like that. This time, however, he would have been glad to jump out of his skin at some unexpected intruders if it meant that the stiff set of his uncle’s shoulders relaxed or a smile stretched across his face.

So, of course, he wasn’t that lucky. The apartment was exactly as he’d left it earlier that morning when Uncle Cid led the way down the hall. He thought for a moment that they were heading for his uncle’s room but was surprised when he stopped short and stepped into Noctis’s instead.

_Uh…okay…_

Maybe he shouldn’t have written off the possibility of a surprise party after all, even if this probably qualified as the smallest one in the history of parties. (It would have to be in order to fit into the tiny spaced that passed as his bedroom.) Noctis couldn’t hide his puzzled frown when he saw that everything in his room was exactly the same with the exception of two new additions: a wrapped box and a sealed envelope waiting for him on his bed.

This, like so many other things today, was different from the norm. Uncle Cid usually waited until after dinner for presents, and even then, he left handing over his own for last. He always said that you had to wait the longest for the best gifts, but Noctis had figured out the real reason a few years back: going first meant having to see Noctis set his offerings aside to fawn over someone else’s. He never said that was why, nor had Noctis asked—it wasn’t really hard to tell, though.

Needless to say, this departure from what Noctis had grown accustomed to was more than a little confusing. When he looked to his uncle for an answer to his unspoken question, the latter simply sighed, motioning for Noctis to join him as he sat heavily on the edge of the mattress.

“Ain’t gonna have much time for this later,” he mumbled so quietly that Noctis had to shift closer to hear him properly. “Reckon we should get it outta the way now ‘fore it gets too late.”

Noctis opened his mouth to ask what was going to happen that would keep them from spending a _normal_ evening at home, but Uncle Cid cut him off by unceremoniously depositing the box in his lap. He offered no explanation, nor did he meet Noctis’s eyes in the process. His uncle simply sat there staring at the envelope he’d picked up, the one that Noctis noticed had his name emblazoned on the front in a vaguely familiar script he remembered seeing somewhere before.

While he tried to place the writing, Uncle Cid pointed roughly to the box and told him, “That one’s from me.”

“Oh… Uh, thanks,” stammered Noctis, taken off guard. The inconsistencies were tallying up; he should have been opening the card or letter or whatever first if the gift in his lap was from his uncle. He wasn’t about to question it, though, as this appeared to be taking enough of a toll on Uncle Cid that he didn’t need to add fuel to the fire. Rather, he tore the paper off a plain white box and opened the lid to find…

“You’re giving me this?!” he exclaimed as he pulled a duffel bag he hadn’t thought about since he was a kid out of the package and laid it flat across his bed. His surprise brought a minuscule smile to Uncle Cid’s face.

“You got more use for it than I do.”

Well, Noctis wasn’t quite sure about _that_. When he was little, he’d certainly thought he would. He could remember rummaging around in his uncle’s closet until he found this bag—he’d drag it back to his room and shove all his toys inside, claiming that he was going on an adventure. Uncle Cid always humored him: he’d ask how he was going to carry a pack that big and whether he had everything he needed for a long journey. (In hindsight, Carbuncle and three boxes of chocolate bars wouldn’t have been nearly enough for the trips he’d planned out in his head at that age, but his uncle was nice enough not to call him on it.) Strangely, he’d thought the duffel was a lot bigger than it looked now, although he figured that was only to be expected. _He_ was the one who’d grown; the bag had stayed the same. There was even a tiny tear in one of the seams where he’d tried to pull it out of his room and snagged the edge on the corner of his bed. His uncle had said he could fix it, but apparently he’d never bothered. Noctis was glad that he hadn’t: it added to the nostalgia of seeing it again when he had all but forgotten about the imagined escapades he’d planned to have when he was young enough not to know what was waiting for him outside Hammerhead.

Just like that, the warmth that he’d felt at holding something that once meant so much to him evaporated as if it had never existed in the first place. No, he didn’t fear the world beyond the outpost anymore, but thinking about the person he’d been before the incident was like looking at someone else’s memories. Things seemed so different now— _he_ seemed so different now—that it felt like a lifetime ago.

What he still couldn’t fathom was what use Uncle Cid thought he would have for this duffel _now_ , of all times. Was he expecting Noctis to go somewhere? Was there something he was supposed to do that he’d forgotten about? Or had his uncle finally tired of his shit and decided to kick him out now that he wasn’t legally obligated to support him?

No, Noctis couldn’t imagine that he would do such a thing. Uncle Cid was rough around the edges, but when it came down to it, he was also one of the kindest people Noctis had ever known. There was no other way to describe him when he’d raised two kids who weren’t even his, taken in a third just because he needed to catch a break, and harbored yet two more once a month just so that Noctis wouldn’t have to be alone. There was no way Uncle Cid would shove him out the front door with a bag of his belongings and a fervent _good luck_. Noctis simply couldn’t believe that of the man who was every bit a father to him.

“Use for it _how_?” he asked once he swallowed the lump that had appeared in his throat. The way his uncle shifted uncomfortably did nothing for the uneasiness that tightened his chest.

In lieu of an actual answer, Uncle Cid thrust the envelope towards him as though it might burn him if he didn’t. “This’ll explain everythin’. Reggie’s a lot better at it than me.”

 _Reggie?_ Where had he heard that name before?

Frowning in confusion, Noctis tentatively took the letter from him and was surprised to discover that it was a lot heavier than he had anticipated. Either this Reggie person had a hell of a lot to say, or there was more in there than just some paper.

Either way, he didn’t immediately open the envelope. Rather, he glanced up at his uncle and inquired, “Who’s Reggie?”

It had been a long time since Noctis saw the peculiar expression that momentarily flitted across Uncle Cid’s visage, yet he remembered it vividly from when he was a kid and asked questions that his uncle didn’t have an answer for. It was obvious that that wasn’t the problem in this instance, though—in fact, it appeared to be the exact _opposite_.

Instead of coming up with some excuse like he would have in years past, Uncle Cid opened his mouth before almost immediately closing it again, clearly having trouble finding the words Noctis needed to hear. If this wasn’t such a serious conversation, if what he held in his hands wasn’t of such seemingly great importance, he would have said never mind. When he was younger, no explanation was worth upsetting his uncle so thoroughly.

Today, as he’d realized earlier, was different.

His uncle knew that too, which was why he didn’t fabricate a bogus answer about it not being a big deal or insist that they could worry about it later. Instead, he fought through whatever was holding him back, even if it meant he had to turn away from Noctis when he finally ground out, “Reggie’s an old friend’a mine…and…your father.”  

There was an agonizing, interminable moment where neither of them moved. Uncle Cid appeared to be waiting for him to react, but Noctis was incapable of responding when his uncle’s answer hadn’t computed at all.

Because now he remembered where he’d heard that name: Uncle Cid had said it to Cor once, years ago when Noctis believed his uncle was helping the latter capture spies working for some unknown enemy. Back then, he’d thought nothing of it except to assume that _Reggie_ was just another police officer who worked with Cor and maybe knew Uncle Cid. Apparently, he’d been right about that.

The rest… It was impossible to process. Noctis didn’t _have_ a father, at least not one that was _living_. Eventually, after years of living with his uncle and never receiving any information about where he’d come from, that was the conclusion he’d come to. After all, what kind of parent ditched their own kid? Noctis refused to believe that his was capable of something like that—if they were, he felt like Uncle Cid would have had something to say about it. This Reggie person, whoever he was, had been alive when Noctis was _eight_. He’d been out there somewhere, probably in Insomnia if he worked with Cor, and he’d never once come to Hammerhead to see him.

A dead father was better than one who didn’t care.

It couldn’t be true. It just _couldn’t_.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” he blurted out, hardly aware that he’d said anything at all until he noticed the way his uncle stiffened where he sat. When the latter turned to face him again, his expression was hard.

“You think I’d joke about somethin’ like that?” demanded Uncle Cid, the harshness of his tone making Noctis’s mouth snap shut. Nodding towards the envelope clutched tightly in Noctis’s hands, his uncle continued, “Your daddy wanted you to have that when you came of age. You got questions, it’s all in there. But ain’t nobody tuggin’ on your chain, son.”

By the time he finished, his voice had softened almost to a whisper, and his gaze took on a more sympathetic edge than the defense glower he’d been sporting. Perhaps he recognized just how enormous the bombshell he’d dropped was, because he didn’t turn away again; he kept his eyes firmly rooted to Noctis’s, offering what silent support he could. It was that more than anything else that cut through the wall of disbelief that he had been trying to build around himself, around the small glimmer of hope that his parents hadn’t abandoned him the way he’d once feared. In the face of that solidarity—that utter and complete _understanding_ —Noctis could only nod, tear open the flap on the envelope, and pull out the folded paper inside.

He caught a glimpse of something round underneath, but that wasn’t his priority right now. If Uncle Cid was right and this _Reggie_ guy was his father, then he wanted explanations and he wanted them _now_. Whatever else was waiting could continue to do so until he decided whether or not he wanted more than the answers contained in this letter.

So, taking a deep breath to steel himself, Noctis unfolded the note to see lines of gently swooping swirls identical to the ones that had adorned the front of the envelope. It reminded him a bit of how Crowe used to write, although this was a much neater, more uniform script than anything she’d displayed. For some reason, that made it all the more difficult to read.

> _Dearest Noctis,_
> 
> _Words cannot express my joy that you have finally come of age and are seeing these, the thoughts and hopes I wished to share with you as you approached adulthood. When last I saw you, I could only dream of this day and pray that it would indeed come to pass. If you are reading this, then my wishes have been granted. For that, I am forever grateful._
> 
> _There is much for us to discuss. To put down in words everything that I desire to say would be impossible, for you deserve a better explanation for the last twenty years than you could ever hope to receive in this medium. I swear to you that we will remedy that immediately, but first, allow me to provide some small measure of the information you must doubtless be seeking. Were I in your position, I would feel the same._
> 
> _Before I continue, I offer my deepest apologies to you. Had it been within my control, I would never have sent you to Hammerhead, nor would I have imposed upon my old friend to be your guardian. Cid was one of my dearest companions for many years of my life, and although the distance between us is great, I consider him as such to this day. Entrusting your safety to him gave me no joy, yet it was with complete peace of mind that your mother and I did so._
> 
> _It may be difficult for you to believe after so many years of silence, Noctis, but the choice to send you from Insomnia to Hammerhead was the most trying decision we have ever had to make. If it had been an option, I would have accompanied you away from the Crown City and remained with you in exile all the days of my life. To do so, regardless of my intentions, was impossible. As king of Lucis, I am tasked with keeping all our people safe, as you will be one day in the future. My own preferences, my own wants, my own needs have always been a secondary priority in the face of the great burden which I bear. I do not offer this as an excuse for my actions, merely as a reason for my decision so that you might someday understand._
> 
> _Had you remained in Insomnia, your life would have been in danger, Noctis. There is no small degree of risk inherent in being born a child of royal privilege, and in the line of my duty, I have made enemies the likes of which you can only imagine. Perhaps you cannot—I, personally, did not foresee the threat that has darkened our doorstep for longer than I cared to consider for many years._
> 
> _I should have. There are so many things I should have done, but this was the great mistake of my rule: to have paid such little attention to a monster I thought had departed from this world. He did not, and instead he arrived to steal you away from us not long after we welcomed you into the world with all the love you deserve._
> 
> _There was no choice—as I write this, there_ is _no choice. Right now, you are sleeping peacefully with your mother, and I wish for nothing more than this moment to last forever. As a king and as a father, I know that that cannot be. What we have decided to do will be done for no other purpose than to see you safe and whole. If that means that we must sacrifice the honor and privilege of watching you grow and being a part of your life, then the only regret I have is that I was not able to prevent this necessity long in advance of it arising._
> 
> _I do not ask for your forgiveness, Noctis, for I know that I have not yet earned it. It is instead my sincere hope that when you arrive in the Crown City, we might begin to take steps towards healing the bonds between our hearts that must be severed with your departure._
> 
> _Enclosed in this envelope is the one gift I could think to give you, and perhaps the one most befitting your ascendance into adulthood. The Ring of the Lucii was given to me by my father at this age, and now I pass it on to you. I know already that you will wear it well, my son._
> 
> _When last I saw you, I could hold you in my arms the way all parents crave. I look forward to knowing the fine man I know you have become since then._
> 
> _All my love on this blessed day,_
> 
> _Regis Lucis Caelum_

By the fourth time Noctis had read the letter through in its entirety, it had ceased to carry any meaning and simply became a wall of words that seemed to choke him where he sat—or perhaps that was the lump that had returned to his throat, cutting off his airway and filling his eyes with moisture. He was afraid to blink, though, lest any of his tears stain the paper or smudge the ink that had dried twenty years ago.

A part of him wasn’t sure what he was crying for: Uncle Cid’s lies of omission, his family’s absence, this alleged _monster’s_ threats that had made both necessary? All of it tore at his insides like the claws of some beast yearning to be set loose, although Noctis couldn’t say that he was as angry as he wanted to be—not now, at the very least. That would probably come with time, particularly once the shock had worn off.

And who _wouldn’t_ be shocked to find out that not only was their father alive, but he was also the _king of Lucis_? It didn’t seem real—it _couldn’t_ be real—yet there was no lie in his uncle’s eyes when Noctis lifted his head to look at him through the haze of his unshed tears. There was only truth, for the first time that he could remember.

His father was King Regis Lucis Caelum.

 _He_ was a prince.

And no one had ever told him.

As the king had said in his letter (Noctis couldn’t call him his father, not even in his head), there was more for him to explain than any note could ever convey—more lies to unearth, more truths to dig out of the muck that had gathered over them as naturally as the passage of time. If anything, Noctis was left with more questions than answers, and he had no idea when he’d be getting _those_.

_Wait…_

King Regis had mentioned seeing him in Insomnia, had spoken of providing the answers he’d sought as a child _immediately_. Uncle Cid had given him the duffel bag he’d played with as a kid—utilitarian _and_ nostalgic at the same time. They both knew something that he was only just now putting together.

Noctis was leaving Hammerhead. Today.

As if he could hear his thoughts, his uncle stood and nodded awkwardly towards the bag where it lay abandoned beside Noctis. “Should prob’ly start gettin’ packed,” he muttered, making his way to the door with a heavy, dragging gait. “Don’ wanna forget nothin’.”

If Noctis had still been able to speak, he would have stopped him. He would have demanded to know what else he’d kept hidden all this time—or maybe he would have just begged his uncle to tell him that this was all some stupid prank. Instead, he did neither, listening to Uncle Cid’s footsteps vanish down the hall and the apartment door shut with an air of finality behind him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there without moving, without thinking, almost without _breathing_. It felt like hours, but Noctis knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. If it had, someone would have come to get him. They would have come to remind him that he was supposed to be packing, supposed to be preparing, supposed to be _leaving_.

With numb, trembling fingers, he reached again for the envelope and turned it upside down almost before he realized he’d moved. Just as the letter said, a black ring with gold on the inside and a tiny crystal set into the front fell onto his comforter with a dull _thud_. Any remaining disbelief he felt vanished the second he picked it up: he _knew_ this ring, he’d seen it before. Crowe had taught him well, and while politics had never really been all that interesting to him, he remembered a lot of what she’d made him memorize about the royal family of Lucis. He knew that the Ring of the Lucii was passed down from monarch to monarch, that the queen—his mother?—had died years ago of some unknown illness…

That they’d had a child that no one ever said anything about.

Swallowing hard, Noctis clenched his fist around the ring for a moment before standing up and shoving it into his pocket. The thought of putting it on his finger disgusted him. Until he got a few more answers from the man who’d orchestrated this whole farce, he wouldn’t wear that symbol of his heritage—a heritage that meant _nothing_ to him that didn’t come out of a history book.

That spark of anger propelled him through the majority of his packing, and Noctis was almost glad that no one came to interrupt him as he threw his clothing pell-mell into the duffel bag that would accompany him on this ludicrous adventure like he’d predicted as a child. The violence of his actions did nothing to ease the churning emotions that threatened to bubble over within him. His rage grew with each of his belongings, the injustice of it all welling up inside—right up until he reached the bottom drawer of the dresser and came face to face with a blue ball of fur.

Noctis froze, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world did the same as he stared down at his first friend.

His _only_ friend, once upon a time.

One who would never— _could_ never—lie to him.

With those beady little eyes staring up at him, understanding in a way that no human ever would, Noctis felt all the anger he’d stored up since his uncle had left begin to fade away. It was of no use to him; hating the truth of his existence wouldn’t make it go away. That was what his friend would tell him if Noctis could still hear him speak the way he used to.

Taking a deep breath, Noctis forced it all to the back of his mind as he sank to his knees in front of his dresser. Without his righteous rage to keep him moving, all that remained was exhaustion, and he didn’t even care how it looked when he pulled Carbuncle out of the drawer and hugged him tightly to his chest.

His entire life had just been yanked out from under him like the car-shaped rug he knelt on, and he was about to be thrust headlong into a world he had no knowledge of whatsoever. All things considered, he figured no one would begrudge him a moment of weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we goooooo! :D


	19. Revelations

“Hey, it’s me. Again.” Noctis ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Sorry for all the messages. Just…give me a call back, okay?”

Disconnecting the line, he tossed his phone on the nightstand and flopped down onto his mattress. How typical: when he _didn’t_ have anything important to talk about, Ignis was always available. The second Noctis found himself in dire need of advice, however, he was nowhere to be found. Five phone calls and thirteen texts hadn’t raised him, and Noctis would have been concerned if it weren’t for the fact that Gladio was equally unresponsive. It was his own fault for trying to reach them in the middle of the day—he knew that. They both had jobs, ones that required more of their time and energy than his ever had; it would be unfair of him to ask them to drop what they were doing and handle his crises as if they were at his beck and call.

Well, come to think of it, he probably _could_ if he really wanted to. He was their prince, so technically they had to bow down and do whatever the hell he wanted.

What a weird thought—and not in a good way.

Now that he’d had some time to calm down, read the king’s letter again, and actually absorb what it said, Noctis wasn’t sure how to feel about the whole thing. That familiar anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it wasn’t as potent as its initial spark. Confusion and sadness had overtaken it, much as he hated to admit it, and they vied for dominance until his head was swimming with things he didn’t want to think about.

No one could tell him he shouldn’t be upset, though: he’d gone twenty years believing that his family had to be dead. Uncle Cid— _not_ his uncle, as it turned out—had never given him reason to suspect the opposite, so what else was he supposed to think? It was the most logical answer, not to mention the one that came with the least emotional baggage possible. To go from having accepted that he was an orphan to realizing that his father was not only alive, but one of the most powerful men in the world… That was going to take some time to come to terms with. Part of him was putting off considering it too deeply, if he was being honest, just like he was doing his best not to look at the duffel bag that was stuffed full and waiting by his closed bedroom door.

The rest of him was so overwhelmed that he didn’t know _what_ to believe. Everything was simply too _much_. Focusing on one thing inevitably led to another until he was falling down the rabbit hole into a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that was constantly threatening to rise up and drown him where he lay. That was why he had been trying so hard to get in touch with Ignis: whenever he reached the point where he couldn’t make sense of his own thoughts, he always knew that Ignis would be there to talk him down and explain stuff in words he could understand. There was no telling whether that logic would hold when Noctis divulged the secret that his uncle had blown wide with that letter, but he was at least hoping that Ignis would have some idea of what to do once the initial shock wore off. Given the way his head was practically spinning with the overload of information he’d gotten so far, Noctis would even have taken a good _kick the shit out of something_ answer from Gladio—anything but the silence that was currently attacking him from all sides.

What he wouldn’t give for the droning of some machinery down in the garage right about now. Ever since Uncle Cid left, the quiet had been stifling; he couldn’t hear any tools or voices, and the usual bustle from the gas station was equally muffled. All it did was add to the distance that seemed to stretch between him and the rest of the world, as if he needed the reminder that he didn’t belong here. It was funny—Hammerhead had always been his home, yet now, he felt like it was a million miles away from him. The outpost was a place for normal people, ones who didn’t have to worry about more than getting by day to day; it wasn’t for princes who were meant to be holed up in a shining tower, waiting to take a throne they didn’t want. Not that he belonged in a palace, either—he hadn’t been brought up for that sort of thing.

Which left him trapped somewhere in limbo, suspended above an abyss of uncertainty.

He didn’t belong in Hammerhead anymore—maybe he never had—nor was he fit for the Crown City he was supposed to call home.

He didn’t belong _anywhere_.

It was so melodramatic that Noctis had to roll his eyes a little at himself. Regardless, nothing could convince him that he was wrong. He’d spent his whole life in Hammerhead, yet now it felt like his entire upbringing was colored by what he’d discovered today. Even the future he’d never gotten a chance to figure out was no longer his own to build. Staying at the outpost, working at the diner, living with Uncle Cid and Cindy—it wasn’t _his_ decision anymore. His new future meant inhabiting some enormous palace, likely surrounded by butlers and servants who did whatever he wanted whenever he told them to. Once he departed for Insomnia, the simplicity he’d always enjoyed would be left behind forever in favor of a lifestyle he could only imagine.

There would be no more watching his uncle work on cars or hanging out with Nyx at Takka’s. There would be no more Prompto. Hell, there wouldn’t be any more Ignis or Gladio despite where they came from. None of his friends fit the mold that he would undoubtedly be expected to fill now that he knew who he was supposed to be, and carousing with commoners was probably frowned upon.

Hammerhead itself wasn’t good enough, which was why the question of leaving wasn’t up to him to answer. No, all that had long since been decided by some stupid agreement Uncle Cid had made with King Regis when he was too young to have any say in the matter. Maybe they’d thought it was for the best; according to the king’s letter, it seemed like that was the case. That didn’t matter, however: it still felt like there were ropes attached to his wrists, pulling him in this and that direction until he was stretched so far that he might just snap in two.

The king wanted him to come to Insomnia. A couple of hours ago, he’d desired nothing more than to stay right where he was.

Noctis wanted nothing to do with the person who’d raised him now that it was obvious just how thoroughly he’d lied about _everything_. At the same time, he desperately craved the validation that only Uncle Cid had ever been able to provide.

For the last few years, he’d struggled to figure out what it was he was going to do with the rest of his life. Now that he knew he was supposed to _rule Lucis_ someday… Suffice it to say that working at the diner didn’t sound so bad all of a sudden.

The worst part? None of it could ignite that spark of passionate rage that had shot through him in the aftermath of this injustice. Every time he considered a new dimension of his plight, whatever it happened to be, all it did was leave him feeling that much more hopeless. After all, he may have been a prince by birth, but he clearly had control over absolutely _nothing_. His entire life had been planned out according to some absent father’s wishes; there was little reason to believe that his own opinion would matter all that much.

He was leaving his old life behind and everything he knew along with it. He had to accept that.

Only his uncle hadn’t raised him to give up when things were difficult; he hadn’t let Noctis fall when what he really needed was to spread his wings and fly. There were exceptions to the rule, like the years he’d spent afraid of his own shadow (or, more accurately, _other_ shadows) and his lack of direction regarding what he wanted to be. When it really mattered, though, Uncle Cid always pushed Noctis to do what he thought was best for himself—even if the lack of pressure for him to form some long-term plans made more sense now. Waiting around for orders to be delivered from an unknown entity he’d never met? Yeah, that wouldn’t sit well with Uncle Cid, and it _definitely_ didn’t sit well with Noctis.

He was his own person. Maybe he hadn’t known who that person _was_ for the last twenty years, but that was neither here nor there. For the moment, at least it was something.

That bit of resolve wasn’t enough to warm the chill that had settled somewhere deep inside his bones; it didn’t drag him out of the well of numb disbelief he’d drifted into.

But it was enough to make him call Ignis. It was enough to make him call Gladio. It was enough to leave him glaring at that duffel bag as though it might burst into flames if he truly wished it.

All the while, he tried not to think about the king. He tried not to remember that they were related, that one day the position at the head of their government would be his and he had no idea how the hell that was going to work. Noctis attempted to shove those thoughts aside and replace them with the same sense of determination he’d dredged up when he accompanied Prompto to Longwythe a few years ago. If he could find that strength, then maybe he didn’t _have_ to just let the royal wind carry him wherever it wanted; he wouldn’t be obligated to do what he was told merely by virtue of the role he’d been ascribed at birth.

When he reached the Crown City and came face to face with the man who had left him in Hammerhead without a word all this time, he would get the chance to speak his mind—and if he had it his way, he would take it. He wasn’t about to stand by and let this guy dictate how the rest of his life was going to pan out. Who was _he_ to tell Noctis _anything_? No one, that was who. As far as Noctis was concerned, he’d given up that right the moment he decided to send his own son away, for _whatever_ reason. No, he would get the answers he was owed and then _demand_ that he had some say in things.

There was no way he could turn back time and forget that this had happened, just like it was impossible to change who he was, whether he’d known it or not. What he _could_ do was make sure that from here on out, _he_ was in charge of his own destiny—in Insomnia or in Hammerhead, it didn’t matter. He refused to give up his friends even if this new life of his meant he wouldn’t see them as often; his family was still his family, whether they treated him differently or not. He was still the same guy who grew up in the middle of nowhere, liked video games, slept a little more than he probably should, and preferred goofing off to thinking about his future. That was who he had been for years, it was who he was when he woke up that morning, and it was who he would be regardless of what happened next. Prince or not, Noctis wouldn’t allow a man who had ignored him for nearly his entire life to dictate who he was going to be.

He was _Noctis_ , and that was what mattered.

“Easier said than done,” he muttered into the heavy silence, huffing a humorless chuckle. Telling himself that stuff was simple—saying it to King Regis’s face, _knowing_ who he was in every possible context, was something totally different.

Would his resolve be enough? Would the king even care? He was the one who held all the power, so it would be well within his rights to throw Noctis into a dungeon somewhere and forget about him if his behavior was deemed too aggravating.

He wouldn’t do that, though. King Regis had said in his letter that he loved Noctis—repeatedly, as a matter of fact.

_But he doesn’t know me,_ that insidious little voice in his head reminded him with an audible sneer. _What happens if I get there and he doesn’t like me? What happens if I’m not the person he expects?_

The answer was simple: the king could just as easily send him right back to Hammerhead if Noctis didn’t measure up to whatever standards he had. Everything Crowe had ever taught him or that he’d seen on the news portrayed King Regis as a kind and noble leader who did what he thought was best for his people; everyone loved him for that. Still, Noctis didn’t exactly _know_ him, so who was to say whether any of that was true? And even if it was, there was no telling how he would react if his son showed up after twenty years and didn’t meet his expectations.

Honestly, the more he considered it, the more Noctis thought that would more than likely be the case. After all, there was nothing impressive about him. He had always done well with his studies, and he’d managed to hold down a steady job for this long. Other than that, the king had no reason to be proud of him for anything; the love he professed to feel for Noctis was based on who he’d been as a baby, not who he was now.

Who he was now? That guy would never earn the praise of a king.

Running his hands over his face, Noctis took a deep breath and shut down that line of thinking once and for all. It did him no good to dwell on what he couldn’t change. If he was lucky, then King Regis would just return him to Hammerhead, and he could continue to tread water until he figured out what an ex-prince was good for. This whole situation would become nothing more than a distant memory, an interesting story that he could whip out when he wanted to get his friends to do something for him. (They usually obliged anyway, but he figured that this would _have_ to quash Ignis’s arguments over Noctis picking the vegetables out of his meals indefinitely.)

That meant Uncle Cid would have to let him come back, though. Noctis had never questioned the fact that he was welcome to stay at the garage for as long as he wanted before, but now… He hated to admit that he wasn’t sure what his uncle would say if Noctis broached the subject with him. Of course, he wasn’t sure what his uncle would say about _anything_ right now given that he’d run out of the room so fast that he’d probably burned a hole in the floor in his haste. He liked to believe that he would be allowed to return to the apartment if things in Insomnia didn’t go as planned—it was more comforting than the alternative.

The thought brought a sigh to his lips. Well, so much for trying to be more positive and make this birthday a great one. If the shattered remains of his heart and mind were any indication, then he hadn’t done such a great job of keeping himself in one piece, either. Nyx was going to have to deal with that later.

Would he, though? Was he going to make it to the garage in time to see Noctis before he was carted away to some new home he didn’t even want? Uncle Cid had been so quick to split after he’d read that letter that Noctis hadn’t even thought to ask when he was supposed to be leaving. Actually, that was the least of his concerns—how the hell was he supposed to get to Insomnia in the first place? Were they sending someone to get him, or was his uncle going to drive him there? Maybe it was too optimistic to hold out hope for the latter, but Noctis couldn’t help sending up a silent prayer regardless. He was still angry with Uncle Cid—in spite of the jumbled mess his emotions had turned into, that wasn’t going to change anytime soon—yet that didn’t mean he wouldn’t welcome a familiar face joining him as he stepped into the unknown.

Noctis rolled his head to the side to frown at his bedroom door. Should he go ask? Or would it be better to wait until someone came to get him?

As it happened, the choice was plucked right from his hands by a bang in the distance and the telltale sound of footsteps approaching outside.

“Hey, Noct—you in there, buddy?” Prompto called through the door, tapping out a rhythmic knock that sounded suspiciously like the jingle on those commercials for Wiz’s Chocobo Post.

Grimacing, Noctis covered his face and pulled in another deep breath. He wasn’t dumb enough to think that he would get away with hiding forever, especially not when he had an appointment with the most important man in Lucis to get to, but he’d hoped it would be a bit longer before he had to face his friend. At least Uncle Cid would understand why he was in such a terrible mood—Prompto had no clue.

_He has no clue_ , Noctis repeated to himself in sudden, abject horror. If Prompto didn’t know about who he was, then _Noctis_ had to be the one to tell him. And not simply that he was a prince—it would be up to him to explain _everything_.

Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse.

“Yeah,” he eventually called. It was better to handle this like ripping off a bandage: get it out of the way and move on, exactly like his uncle had. Maybe Prompto would be able to lift his spirits, as well, since Ignis and Gladio were apparently too busy to talk to him right now.

It was a hopeful thought, but a futile one. When the door cracked open to reveal his third best friend, bright-eyed and utterly oblivious, Noctis merely felt his heart sink a bit lower in his chest. He couldn’t even chalk it up to disappointment at having to tell Prompto that he was leaving. No, it was far more than that, as if his feelings weren’t already confused enough. For a shameful second, just the tiniest fraction of an instant, Noctis was consumed by an all-encompassing sense of jealousy. Unlike him, Prompto always seemed to have his head on straight and knew what he wanted; when he didn’t get it, he was able to find something that he enjoyed until he did. Nowadays, he had no reason to be upset about anything, and he sure as hell didn’t want for much. He was happy in the middle of nowhere, taking pictures and hanging out. Sure, he never _had_ explained where he came from or what had happened to his own family, if he had one. That didn’t faze him, though. If there was one thing that Prompto had perfected, it was living in the moment. He didn’t have to worry about his past biting him in the ass or his future holding secrets that would kick the air out of his chest.

Not like Noctis.

Tamping down the envy he felt gnawing away at the inside of his stomach, he managed a weak smile as Prompto threw open the door and nearly tripped over his duffel bag. Now wasn’t the time for petty thoughts. If these were the last few minutes he would spend with his friend before his life changed even _more_ , then he wanted to enjoy them.

Which meant they had to get right down to business, of course.

“Uh…you going somewhere?” Prompto asked with a confused frown, glancing between Noctis and the bag. He didn’t comment on the bare state of Noctis’s walls and dresser, although his expression indicated that he clearly wanted to.

_Perfect. He really_ doesn’t _know anything…_

Somehow, although Prompto was just as much in the dark about Noctis’s identity as he had been, he’d harbored a fleeting speck of hope that maybe Uncle Cid had told him Noctis was leaving at the very least. That was sort of a big deal, right?

Not enough of one to spill the beans early, it seemed, or perhaps _that_ was exactly why his uncle hadn’t said anything in the first place. After all, Prompto wasn’t what Noctis would call the best secret keeper on the planet; he’d been known to blurt out what a present was long before you had a chance to open it. In this case, he figured finding out like that would have made things even more awkward.

Regardless of their unfortunate history of slip-ups, Noctis had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning aloud. This was the _last_ thing he wanted to deal with right now. Coming to terms with this mess was difficult enough as it was, but having to tell Prompto? Having to see the smile slip off his face and his expression turn down in disappointment?

He couldn’t do it. He just…couldn’t. And yeah, maybe that made him as bad as his uncle and the king and anyone else who knew what he was but never told him. Taking the high road really wasn’t an option this time, though, not when it meant leaving things with Prompto on a bad note. And besides, there would be time to tell him the truth. Eventually.

For now, however, Noctis did the only thing he could think of: he _lied_.

“Yeah, kinda,” he mumbled, sitting up and busying himself with straightening his hair. “It’s a, uh…birthday present…from my uncle.”

“Dude, _seriously_?!” Prompto exclaimed. A moment later, he was hopping onto the mattress, the frame creaking dangerously beneath them. “Like, a vacation?”

“Right, like a vacation,” confirmed Noctis immediately. If Prompto was going to make up the story for him, then he definitely wasn’t about to argue.

Fortunately, his friend had one hell of an imagination without requiring much input. His expression immediately lit up in excitement as he brightly responded, “That is _so_ cool! Now I get why he wouldn’t say anything about what he got you for your birthday. Cindy and I kept asking, but he just told us _it’s a surprise_.” Prompto paused to huff indignantly. “Totally could’ve helped.”

Smirking halfheartedly, Noctis joked, “Sure. If you didn’t tell me all about it first.”

“That was _one_ time.”

“It was at least four.”

“The thing with Ignis doesn’t count!”

“That’s still _three_ times,” observed Noctis, not bothering to point out that that occasion absolutely _did_ count. It had cost him six months’ worth of paychecks to get his hands on those cookbooks, all so that Prompto could ruin the surprise right as Ignis was tearing the paper. He was pleased with them regardless—it wasn’t every day you came across a complete set of _Oric’s Culinary Chronicles_ , not even online—but Noctis had been livid all the same.

Prompto knew it, too, which was why his mouth opened and closed noiselessly a few times before he appeared to give up the fight entirely. The triumph Noctis felt at having stumped him was satisfying but short-lived: his lack of a good argument simply prompted him to redirect the subject back to the uncomfortable path it had been threatening to lead them down. _Figures._

“ _Soooo_ , where’s the vacation? Galdin? Lestallum?”

“Insomnia,” Noctis choked out, barely hiding his wince at the way Prompto beamed in response.

“Aw, man, that’s so awesome!”

“Yeah…”

If his uncertainty showed through at all, Prompto elected to ignore it. Instead, he leaned back on his palms with a huge grin and gushed, “Forget the crown thing—Insomnia’s _swank_ city! Cindy said the cars are, like, _decades_ ahead of the ones out here. Ooh! And did you know they have the _biggest_ arcade in Lucis?!”

Blinking, Noctis stammered, “Uh…no?”

“Ugh, _duuuude_ ,” whined Prompto with a sharp poke to his side. “You _so_ have to go while you’re there and send me pics.”

“S-Sure, I…guess I can do that.”

_If I’m allowed out of whatever gilded cage they throw me in_ , he thought wryly, immediately shaking the notion away. That wasn’t going to help him through this conversation, although his silence hardly seemed to matter. In this instance, it wasn’t like Prompto needed a great deal of encouragement.

“And then there’s that one museum where they keep all the cars that, like, big movie stars drove. I heard they’ve even got King Mors’s from _way_ back in the day!”

“Those have to be worth a fortune,” murmured Noctis disinterestedly. It took every bit of self-control he possessed not to consider the fact that if King Mors was King Regis’s father, then it stood to reason that—

_No._

“Worth a fortune?! Man, they’re _priceless_!” exclaimed Prompto, scandalized. Noctis’s transgression must not have been too severe, however, because his expression softened into a goofy smile as he asked, “How awesome would Cindy think I am if I got a shot of _those_ babies?”

Quirking an eyebrow, Noctis couldn’t help scoffing, “If _you_ got a shot?”

“Aw, come on, be a pal!” wheedled Prompto with that pleading, puppy dog expression he always threw on when he wanted something. Noctis had seen it enough times by now to be utterly unaffected.

“ _You’re_ the one who wants to impress her. Get the picture yourself.”

“ _I’m_ not the one going to Insomnia!”

Okay, Prompto had him there. That didn’t stop Noctis from pointing out, “So, take a trip. Not like you’re short on gil.”

That much was certainly true. Prompto wasn’t one to brag, and he definitely didn’t mention how much money he got from that freelance gig of his, but he didn’t want for anything. He had a nice place to live (even if it was just a caravan and _still_ smelled like hunters decades after the fact), and it wasn’t like he ever had to worry about where his next meal was coming from anymore. Personally, Noctis suspected that his friend had more gil banked than he did, and that was after five years of barely spending anything that he made at the diner. All things considered, if anyone had the time and resources to make a trip to the Crown City, it would be Prompto.

Not that that was apparently of much interest to him. He merely shrugged, grinning mischievously as he replied, “Why go _all_ the way to Insomnia when I can just ask my hero Noct?”

_Hero? Really?_

He could have mentioned how laughable that sounded, but if there was one thing Noctis had learned over the years, it was that Prompto would stop at nothing if he thought he had even the slightest chance of garnering some attention from Cindy. After all this time, that much had never changed, nor was it about to. Noctis’s frequent reminders that Cindy would rather kiss a car had fallen on deaf ears so often that there wasn’t much point after a while. Plus, who was Noctis to poke holes in Prompto’s dreams? One of them should be allowed to keep some hope alive, in any case.

So, with a sigh of defeat, he swallowed his sarcastic retort and settled for, “I’ll see what I can do.”

If he didn’t know any better, Noctis would have thought he was promising to buy Prompto his very own chocobo, his reaction was so animated. The springs in his mattress protested loudly as the latter bounced up and down, an arm around Noctis’s shoulders.

“Have I mentioned you’re the best lately? ‘Cause you’re _totally_ the best!”

“Yeah, I kinda got that,” he teased feebly. Somehow, he doubted Prompto would feel the same if he knew what was probably going to happen: that Noctis would never get anywhere near that museum, at least not in the near future. Maybe he could just text Ignis and have him send some stuff to Hammerhead to aid in _Operation Make Cindy Ignore Prompto Slightly Less Than Usual_ —he’d have a better idea of what to get anyway.

As if sensing his thoughts, Prompto collapsed back onto the mattress with a happy smile and returned to the subject Noctis least wanted to talk about: “So, where ya staying in the city? With Iggy or something?”

“Not really sure,” he replied. The glance he shot his phone wasn’t bitter—not at _all_. “He and Gladio have to work, so I guess not. Honestly, I…don’t even know how I’m getting there. Uncle Cid didn’t say.”

“Oh, duh!” gasped Prompto, jerking upright with a sheepish grimace. “Totally forgot—that’s why I came up here. Cid wanted you to come down and bring your stuff. Which makes _so_ much more sense now!”

Perhaps it did to Prompto. Noctis, on the other hand, felt his brain screech to a halt at the idea that this was it, that he was leaving already. Well, not _already_ : it had been a couple of hours since he’d first read the king’s letter, and the sun was well past the center of the sky outside his window. He’d spent so much of the day sulking, wasting every moment he could have used to prepare himself for the inevitable. Now that his departure was staring him in the face, now that his time had officially run out, he wasn’t ready. It didn’t matter that his bag was packed, his drawers were empty, and everything that had once identified this room as _his_ was gone.

Leaving was about so much more than just grabbing his stuff and walking out the door.

Noctis’s reluctance made his limbs inordinately heavy, and they tried their best to drag him down when he stood to follow Prompto in silence. Just like him, they didn’t want to go; they yearned to trudge right back over to his bed and stay there until tomorrow.

But he couldn’t. He was an adult now—that meant moving forward even if he wasn’t sure what awaited him down the road.

Even so, the emptiness in Noctis’s chest stole his breath away when he reached the door and turned to take one last look at the room he’d grown up in. It seemed so cold, so sterile without his things strewn across every surface. The clothes he usually left piled up in the corner (until Ignis grew tired of looking at them and picked them up himself, that was) were stuffed in his uncle’s duffel bag; he’d wrapped the nightlight Gladio had given him ages ago in a few of his T-shirts so it wouldn’t crack on the journey. All of the trinkets he’d collected over the years were packed away, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d even taken the rug that once sat in front of his dresser. With just a few dents in the walls and his sheets left on the bed—he wasn’t going to need them where he was going—anyone who hadn’t been here before would never know that he’d lived there. To them, it would be nothing but another tiny room.

To Noctis, though, it had been his world for longer than he could remember. In his mind, nothing else had ever existed—this was it. Looking back, he wondered if he would have felt differently about wanting _more_ if he’d known what it would be like to erase every bit of his history—of _himself_ —from his own home.

Admittedly, the pain of leaving had nothing on the agony of lingering like some kind of ghost, so Noctis bent down to pick up his entire life and turned away from the empty room with a decisive sort of resolve. He couldn’t break down in the face of this despair, nor could he afford any of the hesitation that had him fighting the urge to stop as they made their way through the apartment towards an uncertain, unwanted future. With every step he took, with every silent order to control himself, he’d be reminded of something—spilled juice at that table or falling asleep on that couch—and the hole in his heart grew exponentially wider. All of it seemed to bid him farewell, preferring to remain while he abandoned it in the past. By the time he stepped out onto the stairs, Noctis was beginning to think that there wouldn’t be anything left of him when he made it to Insomnia. Instead of a son, King Regis would receive a shell that used to be a person, ready and waiting to be filled with whatever he was supposed to be as the prince of Lucis.

The mere notion transformed the empty spaces in his chest into jagged bits of glass that scratched at his insides as he moved, threatening to tear him to shreds. No, that couldn’t be his fate—he wouldn’t _let_ it be. Noctis was his own person, and he didn’t owe a damn thing to the father who had made him someone else’s problem. If he kept nothing else, if the rest of his being was drained away by grief and isolation from everything that made him who he was, Noctis was determined that he would hold on to that. Spite was as good an anchor as any, and at this point, he would take whatever worked.

It was a sensation that only intensified when he descended into the garage behind Prompto to see his uncle standing outside, speaking to one of his customers about their fancy black car.

Except it wasn’t a customer.

Noctis stopped dead in his tracks when he got a good look at Nyx, who…didn’t look at all like himself. The Nyx he knew wore the same pair of jeans three days in a row if it hadn’t gotten dirty at work. The Nyx he knew didn’t care if his shirts popped a seam or there was mud on his boots, which was frequently the case when he walked to the diner every morning. His hair was usually neat but never styled within an inch of its life the way Noctis had a tendency of doing, and if he’d ever so much as _seen_ an iron, then Carbuncle was a moogle.

The Nyx talking to Uncle Cid wasn’t the same person. _This_ Nyx stood straighter than Ignis, his shoulders a stiff line beneath the long black coat he wore. The sunlight reflected off its silver fastenings, illuminating a matching cord across his chest and a little black earpiece that was almost invisible where it was nestled in his right ear. Unlike at the diner this morning, his hair wasn’t sloppily swept out of his face after a few hours of manning the stove—no, the sides were shaved closer than they had been in months, and the rest was immaculately sculpted with a couple of fancy braids in the back.

Any other day, Noctis would have made a smart comment. He would have mentioned how Nyx didn’t have to get all dressed up just for his birthday, or maybe that he should try wearing that getup to work so they could bring a new image to Takka’s. There were plenty of things he _would_ have said if not for the fact that each and every one got caught in his throat the second they occurred to him.

Because he recognized that uniform. He’d seen it on the news and in the history books Crowe had made him read. It had changed over time, but the overall effect was the same.

It was a Kingsglaive uniform. And it fit Nyx like a glove.

_So, he was in on it too._

It shouldn’t have come as a huge surprise, and in a way, it really didn’t. After all, if the king was willing to go to the trouble of having Uncle Cid raise him for his protection or whatever, then it would be pretty naïve to believe that there weren’t any guards watching Hammerhead for potential threats to his safety. That didn’t stop Noctis from feeling like the world suddenly tilted on its axis, rending the image of the reality that he’d constructed for himself even further. Uncle Cid’s betrayal, while equally painful, had been more bearable: although he wasn’t _actually_ Noctis’s uncle and had never been forthcoming with information regarding his past, everything else about him was on the level.

This was different. This was the realization that someone he’d looked up to, who he’d wanted to be from the time he was old enough to understand that Nyx was _good_ , had been lying to him ever since he was a child. This was the understanding that everything he’d accepted as true about one of his few friends had probably all been an act, and a damn good one at that.

This was the heartache that accompanied the admission that he didn’t _really_ know who Nyx was the way he’d always thought.

How many people had been a part of this? How many had contributed to this lifelong lie he’d apparently been living all this time? As more pieces of the puzzle began to settle into place, Noctis was gradually learning that his entire world was merely a pretense—a con. It looked good on the outside; it seemed whole in the eye of a child or anyone who didn’t know better. Drill one hole in it, however, and all the water his reality once held bled out until nothing existed but the empty shell that used to be his life.

As if to drive yet another nail into the coffin of his delusions, Nyx chose that moment to let his eyes drift over Uncle Cid’s shoulder, meeting Noctis’s gaze for the first time since they’d parted ways that morning. His terse, solemn expression should have eased; a smile should have tugged at his lips, and his face should have warmed into something more welcoming. That was how it had been for as long as Noctis could remember. When he was a kid, it had become something of a goal for him to make Nyx smile whenever he could. So far, there had only been a few exceptions where he couldn’t quite manage it.

Today would be one of them. If Noctis were to guess, he would say that the exception was about to become the rule. That happy, friendly Nyx was gone, and he was left staring into the eyes of an impassive, immovable Kingsglaive operative. Noctis had seen the same look on countless others over the years, mostly on the television at Takka’s when something of note had gone down in Insomnia. They could be talking about the threat from Niflheim or some local function or their kid’s third birthday—that stoic, indifferent façade wouldn’t waver regardless of the subject. It almost identified Nyx more than his uniform, although the latter certainly helped.

A long time ago, when he was less mature and more prone to childish daydreams, Noctis had wanted to meet a member of the Kingsglaive. He’d thought they were so cool and brave and all the things anyone should hope to be in their lifetime. It was something he and Gladio had seen eye to eye on for a change.

Right now, however, his indignation outweighed that old sense of admiration. It would have been so easy to stomp over there and say something, maybe even use a few of the moves Gladio had taught a rather reluctant younger version of himself. They couldn’t exactly argue with him: he had a _right_ to his anger, and even if he didn’t, he was supposed to be their prince. What were they going to do, ground him? Put vegetables in his dinner? The old world where those would have been viable options had shattered, and with it, any inclination to put a smile on his face and try to make this easier for everyone. It wasn’t like _they_ were making it simple for _him_ , so why should he do the same? Why should he care about hurting their feelings the way he had as a kid, the way he _hated_ that he still sort of did even after everything he’d found out today? They didn’t deserve that, just like he didn’t deserve to find out that his existence was a sham.

But ranting and raving at his uncle and Nyx would be about as effective as shouting at the sun for waking him up in the morning. Neither of them would care, nor could they do anything about what had already long been settled. Noctis would save his ire for the person who warranted it, the person who had organized all this from the beginning and made liars of the people Noctis had trusted more than anyone. Why waste words on Uncle Cid and Nyx? It wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to them once he left Hammerhead.

That was what hurt the most.

For a minute, Noctis was so consumed with his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear when Prompto whistled softly and murmured, “Your uncle’s really going all out on this one.”

“Yeah,” he grumbled in response, his jaw aching from how hard he was gritting his teeth. “Looks that way.”

“Guess he wanted your twentieth to be, like, _super_ special.”

Well, he was definitely succeeding in that department.

When Noctis didn’t offer an answer except to glare at the admittedly amazing black car Nyx must also have been hiding from him, Prompto chuckled nervously and continued in the most casual tone he could muster, “So… You should get going? Nyx looks like he’s about to strangle your uncle for making him wear that chauffeur costume.”

“Probably a good idea,” Noctis sighed reluctantly, not sure whether he was talking about Prompto’s suggestion or his mistake.

Either way, the latter nudged his shoulder with a wide smile and asked, “See ya when you get back?”

That took a second to process, but when it did, the angry churning in his gut added a few drops of guilt to the mix. Now was the best time to tell Prompto that he very likely wasn’t going to be returning, that there would be no seeing each other and swapping stories about some made-up vacation Noctis had fabricated to spare himself the discomfort of saying goodbye to one of his best friends. If he didn’t do it now, he was afraid he wouldn’t get another chance, and Prompto deserved better than that.

But when Noctis opened his mouth, the words on the tip of his tongue, he simply couldn’t voice them. How the hell was he supposed to say that he was never coming back? Did he just smile and insist that they’d talk on the phone sometimes, which was probably a promise he wouldn’t be able to keep? That was almost worse than an outright lie, in his opinion. At least he could leave Prompto with the illusion of normality, a sense that everything was going to be okay when Noctis didn’t believe it himself. If that was the best he could do, then didn’t he owe it to Prompto to try rather than splinter their friendship with well-intentioned honesty?

Ordinarily, he would have asked Uncle Cid for his opinion. Today, however, he was on his own.

So, poking his elbow into Prompto’s side, Noctis forced a smirk and evaded, “I’ll text you.”

“Dude, you’d better!” he laughed with a light shove towards the door. “Hurry up! Sooner you get to Insomnia, the sooner you can get a load of the, uh… _stuff_ we talked about.”

“Right,” chuckled Noctis uncomfortably as he offered up a halfhearted wave and trudged outside. He would just add that to the growing list of lies he’d told today.

At least he could take comfort in the knowledge that whatever falsehoods he’d used to keep Prompto from finding out the extent of this little _vacation_ were a drop in the bucket compared to the ones his uncle and Nyx had been concocting for twenty years. It wasn’t the moral high ground he would have preferred when he approached them both, duffel bag in hand and shoulders rigidly set, but it would have to do for now.

“There y’are,” grunted Uncle Cid, motioning impatiently at where Nyx stood beside him as if Noctis hadn’t already noticed. “Nyx here’ll get you to the city. You need somethin’, he’s gotcha covered.”

_I’ll bet he does_ , Noctis mused. That was his job, wasn’t it? Look after the prince and keep him in the dark? Noctis couldn’t think of any other reason he’d be out here.

Putting those thoughts into words meant acknowledging Nyx’s presence, and given that that was the last thing he wanted to do right now, Noctis decided to let it slide. Besides, that comment hadn’t been an invitation for him to verbally lash out; if anything, Noctis recognized it as his cue to thank his uncle for having let him stay this long or something to that effect. His mouth, however, had other ideas.

“You’re not coming?” he blurted out, regretting it a moment later when the skin around his uncle’s eyes went taut and he pressed his lips together in a firm line.

“It’s been years since I seen the Crown City,” Uncle Cid hedged after a slight hesitation. Shaking his head, he added, “Ain’t no place for someone like me.”

It was a subtle hint, but he deciphered it all the same: Insomnia was a place for _Noctis_ , but not for the people he’d called family all this time. If he got in that car, if he let Nyx take him away, then that was it. They wouldn’t come to see him, not even in a formal capacity—they would stay in Hammerhead, and he would be in the city. End of discussion.

Glancing over at where Cindy was inspecting the grill of the car, Noctis briefly contemplated arguing. It wasn’t like Uncle Cid hadn’t been to Insomnia before, right? If he and the king had been friends once upon a time, then there was no denying it. All he had to do was point that out and appeal to whatever was left of the man who’d raised him that if this was the last they were going to see of each other, then they may as well make the most of it. Twenty years had to count for something, after all.

For as much as Noctis thought that he was entitled to a selfish moment, however, he merely nodded in agreement and kept his thoughts to himself. He had no idea what had driven Uncle Cid to settle at the outpost instead of Insomnia, and unless he could get an answer to that question out of the king along with all the others, he doubted he ever would. Still, one thing was clear: his uncle’s place was here. The garage, his actual family, everything he valued—his world was in Hammerhead. Noctis might not have had a choice, but Uncle Cid did. He couldn’t rob him of that the way his own life had been hijacked, his right to choose torn from his hands by someone he’d never even met. Let that be his parting gift in gratitude for all the years of happiness that he’d been allowed by this man who never had to treat him as well as he did. Duty didn’t dictate affection, yet he’d offered it regardless. In that moment, no matter how angry or hurt or spiteful he felt, Noctis could at least give him that much.

That didn’t make it any easier to say their terse, brittle goodbyes. It didn’t help him blink away the tears that filled his eyes when his uncle clapped a hand to his shoulder gently before shuffling back inside the garage. It didn’t spare him the bitter pang of betrayal he was growing accustomed to when Cindy stepped up to him with a guilty smile and said, “Guess I’ll be seein’ ya…prince.”

It didn’t keep him from yanking his bag out of Nyx’s reach when the latter moved to take it from him. He wasn’t about to let the only evidence that his old life had existed out of his sight for a second, and not even the momentary flash of something like hurt that crossed Nyx’s face could convince Noctis to be parted with all that remained of who he used to be. Call it childish, but right now, he couldn’t care less.

Nyx didn’t call him on it either, choosing instead to step back and pointedly open the rear door with a quiet, “Highness.”

What Noctis really wanted to do was ignore the gesture and climb into the front seat, but the idea of having to sit beside Nyx all the way to Insomnia stopped him before he could let his pettiness get the better of him. When he weighed the discomfort of sitting in the back like some kind of snob against being in close enough proximity to potentially start a conversation he didn’t want to have, Noctis knew which he would rather avoid. That was the only reason why he slid inside as directed and let Nyx shut the door behind him, practically clinging to his duffel bag where it was laid out across his lap.

_No going back._

Noctis didn’t remember hearing the driver door open and close or the engine start. He could vaguely recall being asked if he had everything he needed or wanted, not that he bothered to offer a response. The world around him felt as unreal as the one he’d lost as he silently memorized everything that he’d never see again—Takka’s, the convenience store, a shadow beside the garage that looked suspiciously like Umbra. Noctis drank all of it in as Nyx put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, staring at the outpost that had been his home and saying a wordless goodbye.

To Prompto where he was waving from the doorway.

To Cindy beside him, a bright smile on her face that didn’t reach her eyes.

To everyone and everything that probably wouldn’t miss him when he was gone.

To his uncle, standing just inside the garage and gazing after them until they turned onto the road and left Hammerhead behind.

 

***

 

_Well, guess that’s that_.

Prompto sighed inwardly as he watched the tail lights of Noct’s ride disappear into the distance. He knew he didn’t have a right to the twinge of disappointment that wiped the smile off his face as soon as Cindy and Cid retreated back into their apartment, but it was there all the same. Maybe it would help to simply keep telling himself that this was for Noct’s own good and that his own thoughts on the matter weren’t important. Seriously, Hammerhead was no place for a prince; it was about time he went back to the swanky royal life he had been meant to lead from the beginning.

And hey, at least he didn’t have to walk around on eggshells anymore! Keeping his chin up under the weight of knowing that their friendship wouldn’t last forever had gotten tougher over the last couple of weeks, and the emotional exhaustion he’d been suffering as a result was a real downer. Not being able to tell the one person he talked about _almost_ everything with made it that much more difficult.

Walking into Noct’s room earlier and pretending that he hadn’t known what all those blank walls and bare surfaces meant? That one tested his resolve to keep his mouth shut, that was for sure. All his old insecurities—of being found out, of being sent right back where he’d started, of not being a good enough friend to make Noct want him around—had bubbled up to the surface the moment Noct said that he would stay in touch. What exactly did Prompto have to offer a prince? He was nobody special; his few talents were of use in Hammerhead, but Insomnia was no place for him, especially not in the service of a future king. He’d have the best photographers and finest mechanics that money could buy, and he deserved that! Prompto was just…Prompto. With his grungy vest and scuffed up boots, he doubted he would be welcome in the Citadel’s courtyard let alone inside the building.

Which was fine by him—he’d had enough of that sort of thing to last him a lifetime.

So, yeah, this wasn’t so bad. If he looked hard enough, there were still positive sides to this whole mess. Sure, he was losing his best friend, but at least he was free now. He’d done his job for five long years—his end of the bargain was officially delivered. From here on out, he could do whatever he wanted. Prompto could leave Hammerhead, explore Lucis for _real_ , go places he never thought he’d see outside of magazines and television before. The world was his for the taking!

Now if only that could erase the pit grief that seemed to have opened up in the bottom of his stomach, that would be _great_.

Well, first things first. There was no use standing here when there were other things he could be doing, like… Okay, maybe his schedule had been obliterated now that Noct was gone, but he would figure something out. There was always…cleaning the caravan! It had been a while since he took a vacuum to the place; he couldn’t even recall where he’d put the thing, come to think of it. …Did he even _have_ a vacuum, or had he borrowed Cid’s? Or was it Takka’s? Yeah, if it had been _that_ long since he’d cleaned, then he should probably get on that.

Or he could put it off until tomorrow when the thought wouldn’t be so exhausting. Or the next day. …Or the next.

Resigning himself to a walk with his camera and seeing what the world threw his way, Prompto turned on his heel to find himself staring straight into the ugliest wall of flesh and clothing he’d ever had the displeasure of seeing.

_This is_ so _not what I meant._

“Ugh, do you _have_ to show up like that? It’s seriously creepy,” he huffed, folding his arms over his chest and glaring up at Ardyn. A few years ago—even a few _minutes_ ago—he never would have had the guts to react to Niflheim’s not-so-secret weapon so disrespectfully. That was then: he was free now, so that piece of crap could handle a little bit of attitude.

As such, it was almost disappointing when the only response he earned was a quirked eyebrow and careless, “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Which was a total lie—flattery got you _everywhere_ in Niflheim. As one of about ten infiltration units who had spent fifteen years at a facility in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but snow, Prompto hadn’t been privy to much in the way of how the chain of command worked. Still, he knew enough from watching his commanders to realize how things went down if you were trying to work your way up the imperial ladder. They were so used to the taste of kissing ass that it was no wonder the food sucked so bad. (Not that he’d realized it until he arrived in Lucis, of course. Now that he knew what fries were? There was no going back.)

Before Prompto had a chance to contradict him, however, Ardyn calmly strode past with a gesture towards the street. “Ah, I see that the prodigal son returns home at last. How very touching.”

“Uh, yeah,” Prompto shrugged uncomfortably. “Sure.”

_Touching_ wasn’t exactly the word he’d been thinking when Nyx drove his best friend away, but Prompto didn’t bother pointing that out. The less Ardyn knew about his time in Hammerhead, the better. He was already aware of more than Prompto cared to admit, although there really hadn’t been any avoiding that.

_And speaking of…_

“So... Today’s the day,” he observed pointedly. Ardyn merely nodded, not even doing him the courtesy of turning around.

“Indeed, it is.”

Did that sound ominous? That totally sounded ominous. Maybe Prompto hadn’t played this right, and really, he wouldn’t have been surprised if that were the case. This was Niflheim they were talking about; the place was tricky on a good day. Ardyn Izunia, mage of the emperor and douchebag extraordinaire? He was a million times worse than anyone Prompto had ever met, and that was saying something. Being raised by a bunch of assholes who just wanted to use you as a spy tended to give you a thick skin; over time, you accepted the fact that you were nothing more than a tool and lived with the consequences. The day Verstael Besithia had come to him and offered a job in exchange for his freedom had seemed too good to be true even then—now that they were here, Prompto had to wonder if he hadn’t been right. He didn’t know enough about the empire to be dangerous, but that didn’t mean they wanted one of their trained spies living in the land of their enemies, free as a chocobo.

Come to think of it, that was probably the _last_ thing they wanted.

Ardyn appeared to sense his unease, because he glanced over his shoulder with an expression of sudden—and completely fake—realization.

“Oh! You mean _that_.”

Drawing himself up to his full height, Prompto channeled the operative Niflheim had trained him to be as he firmly observed, “I _mean_ , we had a deal.”

“We did, yes,” agreed Ardyn pleasantly, pacing back towards him. It was a testament to the power he exuded that his seemingly innocent gait left the hair on Prompto’s neck standing on end. That feeling merely worsened when the mage tutted in reproach and continued, “It should come as no surprise that you have not kept your end of the bargain in recent months. I expected so much better from one of your impressive array of talents.”

“I sent the pictures like you said,” Prompto countered immediately, although he knew it was a thin argument at best. Apparently, so did Ardyn.

“You did. And as… _quaint_ as the scenery is to some, we both know it does not quite capture the subject I find of most interest.”

No, Prompto supposed it didn’t. Then again, that was the whole point. When he’d first been sent to Hammerhead to infiltrate the prince’s defenses and send intelligence photographs back to Niflheim, he admittedly hadn’t thought anything of it. That was his job, after all, and he’d been trained not to question _why_. It shouldn’t have mattered to him, and at the time, it didn’t: if Ardyn wanted photographs of Noct, then it was Prompto’s duty to deliver them regardless of what they were going to be used for.

In hindsight, he wished it hadn’t taken him so long to realize how _wrong_ that was. Months after they met—months after he’d lied to Gladio and told him the story Ardyn had drilled into his head before he left Niflheim—he was still snapping random shots of Noct and packing them away into an envelope to be picked up by one of his unknown associates at a predetermined drop point out in the desert. Back then, it was simply business as usual to Prompto. Lucis was their enemy, and keeping tabs on the prince was probably just his government’s way of making sure that they had an ace in the hole if King Regis tried anything that they didn’t like. It wasn’t as though they’d told Prompto to kill the guy, although he hated himself when he silently acknowledged that he would have. Photographs, all things considered, seemed like a pretty benign mission objective in relation to what they could have ordered him to do.

The closer he got to Noct, however, the more he began to realize that his mission wasn’t worth it.

His commanders had always told them that Lucians were vicious monsters bent on tearing the empire apart for their own gain. Even now, he remembered sitting in what passed for a classroom and reading a book about how barbaric the old kings of Lucis were. They didn’t rule their people, it had claimed, and through that neglect, they abandoned their citizens to lawlessness. When he’d first arrived to see how people did whatever they wanted with no soldiers to keep everyone in check, it had only solidified the image of Lucis that he’d already made in his head.

Being friends with Noct had changed Prompto; so had Ignis and Gladio when they were around. They made him see that the world wasn’t either brutal dictatorship or utter chaos—there _were_ shades of grey, ones that the empire didn’t want people to see. Ones that he hadn’t realized existed before but was now determined to protect at all costs.

So, he’d stopped taking pictures of the guy he called his best friend and started acting like one in return. That didn’t mean he hadn’t followed his orders, though. The photographs he sent to Ardyn over the last couple of years weren’t what he’d been deployed to obtain, that much was true. It wasn’t like the empire wasn’t going to glean much from a cloud that looked like a moogle or an afternoon where a sandstorm turned everything orange—and that was exactly the way Prompto liked it. He still caught a few shots of Noct from behind or made sure that some strands of his hair were in the frame, of course; he had to keep up appearances, even if he had no doubt that Ardyn would be less than satisfied with his offerings. What he’d sent was enough to ensure his freedom _and_ protect Noct from whatever this weirdo was planning—of that, he was absolutely positive.

And if it wasn’t, then too bad. Prompto wasn’t going back to Niflheim. He _wasn’t_.

“I still held up my end of the deal. That means I’m off the hook here,” he insisted, imitating the authority he remembered Verstael verbally thrashing him with when he was a kid. The guy had to be good for something, right?

If he thought that Ardyn was going to be intimidated, however, he was sadly mistaken. The mage simply smiled like a villain and placed a firm— _cold_ —hand on his shoulder.

“My dear boy,” he chuckled, the sound devoid of any true emotion. “If there is one thing that I have learned over my many, _many_ years of existence, it is this…”

There was no escaping Ardyn’s viselike grip, so Prompto could do nothing more than jerk his head away when he leaned into his space and sneered, “To dispense with a valuable tool is in no one’s best interests.”

Before he could say a word—before he could even consider running—a sharp pain erupted at the base of his neck and the world went black.


	20. Father and Son

“You cool enough back there?”

Noctis didn’t answer, his gaze firmly fixed on the passing scenery outside his window. That had been his response to every question Nyx had posed to him since they left Hammerhead an hour ago, and if the weary sigh he heaved was any indication, he was apparently getting tired of the silence.

For once, it didn’t really bother Noctis. The alternative meant talking, talking meant emoting, and that was bound to lead him into trouble. His thoughts were already an incomprehensible wreck as it was without adding an argument to the mix. They could save that for later.

It rankled that his so-called friend felt like he had the right to address him so casually after all the lies he’d told, though. Seriously, did he think he could just step out of one character and into another, no questions asked? Did he really believe that Noctis wouldn’t be angry that he’d played him all this time? If he did, then he couldn’t be such a good Kingsglaive operative—they were supposed to be _smart_.

Of course, he’d always known Nyx was intelligent; that was one of the things he’d admired about him since he was a kid. It was simple to assume that anyone who voluntarily chose to work in a diner their whole adult life must be some kind of idiot, that they didn’t have the intelligence or talent to get a better job. Nyx, however, had exuded an air of something Noctis could never put his finger on that quashed those assumptions before they could fully form. When he was younger, he hadn’t tried all that hard to decipher what it was, and the matter ceased to intrigue him by the time he’d grown old enough to question it. All he’d known was that someone as smart and funny and kind as Nyx shouldn’t have been working some dead-end job in the middle of nowhere.

Now that he had the whole story, or at least the parts of it that mattered, it made a lot more sense.

That was the most aggravating part, if he was being honest. Noctis couldn’t fault Nyx for doing his duty as well as he apparently had. The Kingsglaive was meant to protect the king and, he assumed by extension, the prince; Nyx had gone above and beyond to do just that. The uniform was a mere formality when Noctis remembered the night he’d discovered what lay beyond the borders of Hammerhead for the first time—well, what little of it he _could_ recall. Most of his conscious knowledge about the incident was based on accounts he’d heard from other people, so his perception of it had changed depending on what they’d added to the story. The rest was down to his dreams to convey, and there was no telling how accurate those were. One thing, however, had remained constant: in his mind’s eye, he always saw Nyx’s face, serious and stoic with a touch of something softer underneath.

Worry. _Fear._

No, Noctis wasn’t angry that Nyx had spent the last twenty years watching his back and keeping him safe. It was the _deception_ that went along with it that tore at him like the daemon Nyx had rescued him from. Noctis longed to see him the way he always had—as a friend who supported him no matter what—but there was a barrier there, a hideous mask that seemed to have been draped over his face to turn him into someone else. He could never be the same kind of monster that Noctis still feared in the dead of night when no one could call him on it, yet the creature that had inhabited his friend’s body as though it belonged there forced Noctis into silence all the same. There was no talking to this stranger who wore Nyx’s face, nor was there anything to say.

So, he said nothing. He simply stared out the window, bag in his lap and eyes following the rise and fall of the ground beside the road. Not much had changed out there: it was just as scrubby and dry as Hammerhead, although Noctis couldn’t help noticing that the number of abandoned buildings increased the further they drove from the outpost. Back before he’d finished his lessons with Crowe, she’d taught him about the occasional skirmishes that had been fought against the empire on the borders of the Crown City, but that was decades ago. Niflheim hadn’t attacked since he was a kid; if anything, they’d gotten a little too quiet for comfort lately. Maybe the king simply didn’t bother cleaning up this area in case they decided to try anything again.

That or he just didn’t care.

Frowning, Noctis pushed that thought aside as soon as it occurred to him. He needed to make it through this meeting, and reading too much into irrelevant things wouldn’t help matters. His heart was already pounding in anticipation of reaching Insomnia as it was.

If he didn’t know any better, he would have said the sound of it slamming against the inside of his rib cage was what made Nyx keep glancing back at him in the rear-view mirror. It was unnerving, that intermittent feeling of eyes on him, and the hair on his arms stood on end while he scratched idly at the bandage that was still wrapped around his left hand. Were it not for the fact that open air made his cut sting, he would have torn it off and dumped it out the window without a second thought. Childish gesture or not, the satisfaction it would have given him was almost worth the irritation. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Nyx had pulled him into Takka’s office and treated his mistake, muttering that he should really be more careful around the sharp utensils they used on a daily basis. He was a different person then— _Noctis_ was a different person then.

The people they’d become sat in tense silence, total strangers while simultaneously the most familiar of friends. It seemed like that was going to be the theme of the day, and the thought of what lay ahead had Noctis pulling his duffel bag closer where it had been sitting on his lap ever since they left the outpost.

That was apparently a mistake. Nyx must have heard the motion, because his eyes darted to the mirror for possibly the tenth time in the last minute, a frown creasing his forehead. “You don’t have to hold that, you know.”

Biting his tongue against a sarcastic retort, Noctis wordlessly turned back to the window. He thought that would be enough of a response in itself to return them to their quiet contemplation of the lies they’d been living for twenty years, but it looked like Nyx was finally fed up with the awkward atmosphere that had created between them.

 _He started it_ , Noctis thought darkly. There was really no arguing that one.

“Plenty of seat back there,” Nyx pointedly continued, gaze alternating between Noctis and the road.

It took a great deal of effort not to reply that if he had wanted to put his bag on the seat beside him, he would have done so well before Nyx offered that brilliant suggestion. The fact of the matter was that Noctis _didn’t_ want to put his bag down; he _didn’t_ want to let it out of his grasp for an instant let alone however long it was going to take for them to reach the Crown City. Everything else he’d held dear had been stripped from him in a matter of hours—if the last thing he had in the world was this stupid bag with all his stuff inside, then damn it, he could hold onto it for as long as he liked.

Nyx knew him well enough that he didn’t need Noctis to speak in order to hear what he had to say. His thoughts hovered in the air between them, tangible and smothering, until he finally sighed, “No one’s going to take it from you.”

It took every bit of self-control Noctis possessed not to scoff in derisive disbelief. Was that supposed to be comforting? Because call him crazy, but he would have thought that reassurance would apply to his entire identity. That hadn’t panned out either, so really, Nyx’s promises didn’t mean a whole lot to him at the moment.

“I’m good,” Noctis told the window in a low voice that he could barely hear over the quiet hum of the engine. Nyx had no problem making out the words, however.

“Once we get to the Citadel,” he continued as though Noctis hadn’t spoken, “you can find a place for everything. Not like you’ll be short on space.”

What Noctis really would have liked to say was that he _had_ a place for everything already— _in his room_. At the apartment he’d grown up in. _Home_. Not some stuffy bedroom in a palace he had never seen before. At least he had control over where his things went in Hammerhead; in Insomnia, he had no doubt that there would be some butler picking up all his stuff, deciding where it went and whether it was worth keeping.

He would have to make that yet another item on his list of demands for the king: _no one_ was allowed to get rid of anything he brought with him for any reason. _Not negotiable._

None of that was worth mentioning to Nyx, however, so Noctis didn’t bother. It wasn’t his business anyway: once he dropped Noctis off at the Citadel, he ceased to be Nyx’s problem anymore. His time was up, his sentence commuted, and he would probably go back to whatever it was he used to do before he was sent out to Hammerhead. For all Noctis knew, this might just be the last time they saw each other.

Somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to. The car’s sudden deceleration had Noctis sitting up straighter and peering around the passenger seat to see a dilapidated checkpoint ahead. No one was manning it; if he were to guess, he would say that no one had for quite some time. Regardless, bright red letters clearly spelled out that they were about to enter the city of Insomnia, and it suddenly felt as though a weight had been dropped into his stomach.

_This is it._

At first, it didn’t seem like they had passed a milestone there was no returning from. With the exception of a few obviously abandoned apartment buildings, there wasn’t much of a difference once they were officially within the Crown City’s limits. The same dusty, rocky terrain greeted them as Nyx followed the road, just as barren as Hammerhead but a lot lonelier. (Admittedly, that might have been his perception of it.) Their course curved to the left and continued on for a minute before anything changed, and when it did, Noctis found himself staring at what he had been anticipating and dreading in equal measures: the towering concrete walls that surrounded Insomnia.

He’d seen them in pictures, but no photograph could encompass the sheer magnitude of the fortress that the kings of old had built to protect the seat of their government. Noctis could only gawk the closer they drew; if Nyx noticed his awe, he was kind enough not to mention it. He merely glanced over his shoulder when Noctis reached forward to steady himself against the center console, lips twitching in a way that Noctis didn’t appreciate at all. It wasn’t enough to force him back into his seat, though. Rather, he watched the wall as it appeared to grow impossibly taller with their approach. By the time they crossed the bridge leading up to it, he couldn’t even see the top of the structure through the windshield anymore.

If he thought _that_ was unreal, it was nothing compared to what awaited them at the other end.

Unlike the previous checkpoint, this gate was well guarded. There had to be at least two dozen soldiers stationed at intervals along what Noctis could only describe as the biggest door he’d ever seen in his life, their faces set in stoic expressions identical to the one Nyx had worn when he showed up at the garage earlier. They definitely weren’t Kingsglaive—it was easy to tell from the state of their uniforms—but he didn’t think these guys were any less likely to tear you apart if you tried to gain entry to Insomnia without their authorization.

While most held their positions, one of them stepped away from the others with a hand on the gun holstered at his side as they approached. Nyx didn’t bother rolling the window down, nor did the guard order him to. All it took was a quick glance inside the car before the latter waved them forward and the enormous gate opened to admit them.

Apparently, the outfit did more than just make you look badass.

That wasn’t what made Noctis frown in confusion, though. Maybe it was a little weird, but he couldn’t help wondering why there was no ceremony involved in the process. As far as these guys were concerned, their prince was coming home for the first time in twenty years—shouldn’t they have rolled out the red carpet for him or something? Not that he’d expected it; he wouldn’t have wanted them to go to the trouble, especially not when he still wasn’t sure how he felt about all this. It simply struck him as odd that a situation the king claimed made his day didn’t seem like such a big deal to the guards. They ignored him altogether as Nyx hit the gas and drove through the checkpoint, exhibiting neither the curiosity nor the excitement that Noctis would have thought.

Thankfully, he didn’t have a chance to dwell on the strangeness of their reaction—or lack thereof. Thoughts of guards and kings were swept clean from his mind when they passed through the gate and emerged onto a wide highway, the Crown City rising up before them like a majestic creature from the sea.

For a moment, Noctis forgot about his anger, forgot about confusion and pain and betrayal. The thoughts he’d been battling mercifully went silent, allowing him to simply stare as they sped down the road with towering skyscrapers on either side of them. Now _this_ was what he’d imagined Insomnia would be like—actually, it was _more_ than he’d ever thought possible. There was a sprawling mass of buildings beneath the bridge and on the hillsides closest to the wall, all organized in neat grids as far as the eye could see. Noctis thought that most of them could probably fit ten of the garage inside, if not more, yet they were _still_ dwarfed by the size of the elevated roadway that carried them towards the center of the city. The only thing bigger that he could spot was a looming monument: a statue fit for a king, and likely depicting one if he was remembering his history correctly. There were supposedly tons of them throughout Insomnia, each styled after various kings that had sat the throne in one lifetime or another. All former rulers, all long dead—

All members of his family. One day, King Regis would undoubtedly join them with his own memorial somewhere in the city. And then, years later, so would he.

 _Stop_.

Forcibly shaking that notion out of his head, Noctis busied himself with trying to absorb everything he’d never seen outside of television or books before. He’d always known Hammerhead was small, yet the hustle and bustle of the city once they made it across the bridge was almost overwhelming in its magnitude. There were people _everywhere_ ; shops lined every street until he had to wonder whether there were even enough customers to patronize them all. Most buildings were so tall that they blotted out the gradually lowering sun in places, casting long shadows on the narrow roads Nyx was steering them along, but the dark corners were broken up by lights from huge display windows full of products and wares. There was no shortage of things to look at, and it didn’t take but a few minutes for Noctis to give up attempting to observe all the windows at once. Instead, he settled for slumping back in his seat to watch the city roll by in dazed wonderment.

People seriously lived like this all the time? At the outpost, he was lucky to run into someone who wasn’t just passing through for gas or food on their way to wherever it was they were headed. Here, on the other hand, it appeared that they were used to being right on top of each other, whether it was sharing one of the countless cabs milling about or cramming onto packed sidewalks. They traveled like schools of fish, flowing along the concrete walkways without seeming to realize that they were part of a group at all. On this side of the street, a guy in a fancy suit shoved past a crowd of people waiting for a traffic light to change; on that side, a woman on her phone somehow knew exactly how to wade through the throng without ever bumping into anyone. None of them paid any attention to the neon lights and royal statues and buildings that looked like they had been built decades if not centuries ago.

And at the center of it all stood the Citadel. Even if Noctis had never noticed the photos they showed on the news, he could easily guess which building it was—you’d have to be an idiot not to. The palace was like a white crown settled atop a rocky plateau; the outside reflected brilliantly in the late afternoon light, and Noctis could only imagine that it was a sight to behold in the middle of the day. One of his customers at the diner had once called it a _marvel of modern architecture_. Seeing it in person, Noctis had to agree, and the castle caught his eye every time it came into view. It didn’t seem to matter where you were in the city: you could always see the Citadel through the jungle of metal and concrete that stood between the common folk below and the throne on high. If the opposite was equally true, if you could look out over the entire city from the upper levels of the castle as it seemed, then it really was one hell of a symbol. With every twist and turn of the road ahead, Noctis discovered that there were other structures that appeared to have been built with the Citadel in mind, yet none of them came close to imitating the sweeping grandeur of their king’s residence. Maybe some would argue otherwise, but when Nyx made a right onto the street that ran straight into the palace, Noctis was too entranced to fathom how.

As extensive as the security at the wall had been, it was nothing compared to the veritable battalion that waited for them at the entrance to the castle, which was pretty damn fancy in its own right. The wrought iron gates were nowhere near as tough as the door they’d passed through before, but they weren’t guarded by ordinary soldiers. No, this was the center of their kingdom, and only the best were chosen to keep their king safe. Each and every one of them were dressed exactly like Nyx; although they weren’t carrying guns the way their counterparts at the border had been, the knives and swords strapped to their waists were by no means any less of a deterrent. After all, from what Noctis had learned about them, they were the elites. If you got on the wrong side of a Glaive, you should probably just say your prayers to the Six and wait for the end.

That was the most awkward possible moment to remember that his escort, the man he’d thought of as a big brother for as long as he could remember, was one of them.

Now that he was amongst his true peers, Nyx seemed to embody everything that Noctis believed a Glaive should: he sat a little taller in his seat, calm and decisive and indubitably in his element. When he rolled the window down to address the guard approaching the car, he sounded more authoritative than he’d ever needed to at the diner.

“Special delivery for His Majesty.”

Noctis would have bristled if not for the shock he felt at hearing a familiar voice answer, “Looks like the delivery is a little ahead of schedule, don’t you think?”

It couldn’t be. There was no way…

But there was. Noctis practically dove across the back seat, leaning over his bag to see Crowe standing outside the window with her arms folded across her chest. It had been a little over a year since the last time he’d seen her; now that he wasn’t her student anymore, she didn’t venture out to Hammerhead as often as she used to. There was no mistaking that face, however, nor would he ever forget her voice no matter how long it had been since he’d heard it.

A few hours ago, he would have said that this was a dream. He’d always known that Crowe lived in Insomnia—she’d told him herself. Being here for the first time in his life was just putting thoughts in his head, making him imagine a familiar face that wasn’t actually there.

After the day he’d had, however, he wasn’t naïve enough to believe that that was the case. She was _here_ , and she had lied to him just as thoroughly as Nyx and Uncle Cid. In a way, she was almost worse than them: Crowe had taught him all about the history of Lucis, the history of the people who were apparently his family, and never told him who he was. She’d taught him most of what he knew about the world, and he’d looked up to her as one of the smartest people he knew.

She’d lied. All for the sake of what he assumed had to be the duty she was assigned by the king.

Swallowing hard and blinking away the moisture in his eyes, Noctis slipped into his own seat again with his head bowed as Nyx explained, “Change of plans. We decided to move a few hours early.”

“Got it,” replied Crowe, her words as clipped as her footsteps were stiff when she backed away from the car. Noctis didn’t raise his head, but he assumed that she must have given them the clearance to enter since a sound like creaking metal rent the air ahead of them a few seconds later. “Just don’t tell Libertus you’re here yet. I’ve still got that ten gil on you making it until tomorrow.”

A bark of laughter was all the indication Nyx offered that he knew what she was talking about, which was saying a lot more than Noctis could. As he was putting the car in gear, he retorted, “Guess you’re buying dinner, then.”

He didn’t wait for her to argue, not that it looked like she was going to. When Noctis peered at her through the window on their way by, she was too busy rolling her eyes to come up with anything good before they passed through the Citadel’s gates.

The sight sent a thrill of anger through him that he couldn’t control. How could they act so naturally about all this? His entire life was being torn to shreds before his very eyes, but they were able to joke and carry on like it was any other day? _What the hell?_

It only served as another reminder that they weren’t who he’d been led to believe. The Nyx and Crowe he’d grown up with were gone; they’d never truly existed to begin with. Seeing these impostors walking around wearing their faces, though… It hurt more than he thought it would after everything else he’d already dealt with.

In the span of a few moments, Noctis’s curiosity and amazement at all that insomnia had to offer vanished, leaving him glaring at his fists where they were clenched tightly around the strap of his bag. His knuckles were white, and pain radiated up his left arm from his fingernails digging into the cut beneath his bandage. That was fine, though—at least physical pain was better than the emotional agony that seemed to have no end today.

So, of course, it was about to get worse.

In his distraction, he didn’t realize the car had stopped until his door opened and a black-clad figure stepped into view beside him.

“Welcome to Insomnia, Your Highness.”

Blinking himself out of his stupor, Noctis’s eyes shot up meet Cor’s in utter horror.

 _Not him too._ Please _not him too._

His silent pleas were too little, too late. Based on the state of his outfit, Cor wasn’t a member of the Kingsglaive like Noctis was slowly coming to expect, but he definitely stood with the air of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. _Here_. At the Citadel.

Calling him _Your Highness_.

Neither of the liars he’d grown up with appeared to register the devastation he felt dragging his stomach down towards his feet. Then again, they were both so accomplished at manipulating him that they probably did and simply didn’t show it. At this rate, that wouldn’t have surprised him a bit, just like he didn’t find it odd that Cor glanced right past him to address Nyx as if he wasn’t even there.

“I’ll escort Noctis to the king. See to it that his belongings reach his chambers before he arrives.”

For the first time since they’d left Hammerhead, Nyx’s expression wavered. They’d already had this discussion—if it could be called that—and Noctis’s grip on his duffel bag tightened in response to the suggestion. Cor didn’t take that for the flat refusal it was meant to be, however. In fact, he didn’t acknowledge Noctis’s wordless input at all. Rather, Cor reached inside to grip his upper arm with a firm hand and guided him out of the car; in his surprise, Noctis’s fingers loosened just enough for him to seize the bag in the process and drop it back onto the seat. Half a moment later, the door was closed and Cor was leading him up the stairs to the grand entrance of the Citadel. No amount of resisting could dislodge his hand from Noctis’s shoulder, and try as he might, he wasn’t able to free himself before the sound of Nyx speeding away echoed through the courtyard and leached all the fight out of him.

It was all gone. Everything he’d known before and all he’d brought with him was gone.

Would his things _actually_ be waiting for him, or was that some kind of code for _burn that crap before the king gets a load of it_?

He supposed he was going to find out soon enough. One way or the other, he couldn’t banish the feeling that something was _wrong_ as he stepped inside the cool interior of the palace. The loss of that last connection to who he was left him feeling off kilter, although he’d be lying if he said Cor’s presence wasn’t at least somewhat bolstering. Why couldn’t his traitorous heart just let him be angry in peace?

The feeling merely worsened when Cor relinquished his hold, seemingly satisfied that Noctis wasn’t going to make a run for it, and allowed him to trudge forward under his own reluctant power. In that instant, he hated everything: Cor, the Citadel, the fact that he wouldn’t have been able to escape if he tried. The lattermost had to be the worst: loath as he was to admit it even to himself, he couldn’t claim that it was because of the guards that were posted on each door or in every corner of the expansive lobby. No, although he’d never say so, there was a certain sense of curiosity that was burning at his core now that he was in the place where he supposedly came from—the place where he would live out his days if everything went according to the king’s increasingly convoluted plan. There was no avoiding the way his eyes were drawn to the dazzling white lights on either side of a shining black tile walkway; just as he’d gaped at the Crown City itself, he found himself attempting to determine whether the gold set into the floor was _real_ or just _really_ convincing.

Perhaps the only thing he could be grateful for was that, like at the wall, there was no pomp and circumstance. They hadn’t prepared anything special for his arrival as far as he could tell; he wouldn’t claim to be the most knowledgeable person in the world when it came to how the Citadel operated on a daily basis, but it certainly didn’t seem that way. From the looks of it, everyone was conducting business as usual. The various reception desks were manned with impeccably dressed, professional employees who greeted lines of people patiently awaiting their turn to get whatever it was they’d come for. Maybe they were here for the same reason he was; it appeared that they would have to take a number, though. The place was bustling with activity, and Noctis highly doubted that anyone would be able to see all these people in one day.

Not one of them paid him any mind except to veer around him as they hurried about the lobby. There were no orders to stand at attention; there was no gasps or whispers at the sight of their long-absent prince finally having returned to his roots. For all anyone seemed to care, he was just another face in the crowd. Oddly enough, that made him feel a little more at home: in Hammerhead, it was exactly the same. Besides the obvious fact that his so-called uncle ran the garage, there wasn’t anything special or noteworthy about him, so there wasn’t much reason for anyone to treat him differently from anyone else at the outpost. Standing in the middle of all these people he’d half expected to bow to him, though, it was almost comforting to realize that entering the Citadel wasn’t going to be accompanied by a bunch of awkward staring. Not yet, anyway. If anything, they seemed to show more deference to Cor than him, nodding in greeting and murmuring innumerable respectful variants of, “Marshal.”

Noctis ducked his head just in case anyone tried to get a better look as he followed Cor through the throng towards the hall of elevators at the other end of the lobby. Instead of choosing the first lift that didn’t have a crowd of people waiting, Cor led the way to the last one on the right—the only one that no one else was using—and tapped the call button. It wasn’t until the doors opened and Noctis stepped inside that the dread he’d been holding back began to creep up on him again. Being alone with Nyx had been one thing: in a car, it was simple to ignore each other’s presence. This was entirely different, and standing beside Cor suddenly felt as foreign to him as Insomnia itself. It was a hell of a departure from the easy companionship he’d felt not too long ago, even if Cor was still intimidating on the best of days.

And no wonder when he was apparently one of the highest-ranking officials at the Citadel.

_So much for being a cop._

Mercifully, Cor didn’t immediately attempt to make conversation once the doors slid shut and cut them off from the rest of the world. He was too busy pulling a key out of his pocket and inserting it into a slot on the elevator panel, which Noctis belatedly realized had no buttons. So, apparently they would be taking the express route rather than the main thoroughfare. That wasn’t ominous at _all_.  

The smooth transition into motion was jarring when Cor turned the key, although Noctis supposed it would have been too gauche for a fancy elevator in the most amazing building in Insomnia to jerk and grind its gears. If it weren’t for the numbers ticking away on the display above the panel, Noctis wouldn’t have known that they weren’t still on the first floor. After a few moments of uneasiness, he couldn’t even stomach watching anymore: it really didn’t matter how high they were ascending once they went over thirty.

What Noctis really wanted was for the ride to pass in silence, awkward though it might be. Cor seemed to have other ideas.

“The king will be waiting for you in his private chambers,” he announced to the otherwise empty elevator, his eyes firmly set on the doors in front of them. Noctis would have done the same if not for the bafflement that had him turning to level him with a puzzled frown.

“Don’t kings usually meet people in a throne room or something?”

Either the thinly veiled sarcasm in his voice went unnoticed (unlikely), or Cor was ignoring his tone in favor of humoring him after the long day he’d had, because he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he simply countered, “He didn’t want to meet you as king and prince, but as father and son.”

Well, that was a bit of a slap to the face, one that had Noctis looking away with a grimace. Father and son? Yeah, that was going to go over well once the king realized that Noctis wasn’t the son he was expecting. Besides, what kind of connection was he supposed to have with the guy? They’d never met! Oh no, wait, they _had_ met—when he was a _baby_. They had _nothing_ in common; this man didn’t know _anything_ about him. But he wanted to dress this up as a reunion amongst family members?

If this meeting went the way Noctis was expecting, then the only family reunion he’d be having today was with Uncle Cid when he crawled back to Hammerhead with his tail between his legs and begged for his room back—preferably with his bag in hand, although who knew whether he would be allowed to grab it before they booted him out the front door.

Deciding not to tempt fate by giving Cor a reason to hasten that outcome, Noctis gritted his teeth against a number of scathing retorts and focused his attention on those rapidly ascending numbers until they finally slowed to a halt a minute later. At first, he nearly breathed a sigh of relief. His anger at the revelation of Cor’s betrayal hadn’t hit him quite as hard as the others; by now, he was getting used to the idea that everyone he knew had lied to him at one point or another. Noctis wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing that he was starting to acclimate to the incessant disappointment or not, but while it didn’t make the company any less uncomfortable, it was better than the alternative. When the doors slid open, he thought for sure that things would be easier outside of such close quarters.

Then he stepped into the corridor and felt the world turn cold.

He knew this place. The lights, the wallpaper, the colors—all of it was familiar, although he couldn’t recall from _where_. Maybe a picture? No, that couldn’t be: he’d only ever seen the outside of the Citadel, and even that was from afar. So, why did it resonate with something deep inside him, filling his ears with a buzzing that seemed to drown out everything else? Cor’s footsteps made no sound against the tile as he strode past; his mouth moved, but Noctis couldn’t hear the words he said. All he could do was follow along in his wake, pressing a hand to his temple and trying for all the world to stave off the sudden feeling that he was drowning—that the shadows were reaching out to grab him—that his palms, his head, his chest were all _burning_ —

“Marshal.”

“Ignis.”

Noctis blinked aside the haze of _something_ he couldn’t identify as the exchange yanked him out of the labyrinth his mind had become. Even so, his emotions were still far distant when he looked up from the floor to see one of his oldest friends striding purposefully down the corridor towards them, padfolio in one hand and phone in the other. The phone he’d had for years.

The phone Noctis had been calling and texting all day.

This time, it wasn’t flames of anger that licked at his insides; it wasn’t the bitter taste of betrayal that stoked the fire within him. Maybe he could thank the strange sense of déjà vu that had not yet subsided or mere emotional exhaustion for his near indifference, but Noctis was incapable of doing more than staring as they approached one of the people he’d thought he knew better than anyone. Unlike Uncle Cid, Nyx, Crowe, and Cor—unlike everyone else, Ignis couldn’t hide the slight downward turn of his lips or the unspeakably _guilty_ crease between his eyebrows. It looked so out of place on a countenance that had never been lacking in certainty that Noctis couldn’t bear it. They hadn’t even passed each other before his gaze fell to the floor again, his head swimming with memories of friends that he couldn’t quite reconcile with these caricatures of them. It simply didn’t feel like that was Ignis, responsible and loyal and truthful to a fault.

It didn’t strike him that the grandiose figure at the end of the corridor they turned down could be Gladio, gruff and brave and a little too quick to browbeat you with his opinion.

It was unbelievable to consider that the man standing opposite him, with his close-cropped silver hair and severe expression, was the guy Noctis had seen in countless family photos Gladio showed him over the years.

It couldn’t be real. He didn’t _want_ it to be real.

Reality didn’t care. Reality had taken to kicking him while he was down and reminding him that it wasn’t _this_ that was the dream, but everything that came before it. Hammerhead, his imitation of a family, the people he’d called friends—now that he was waking up, they had reverted to vacant silhouettes in the back of his mind, replaced by the real thing he had never gotten a chance to meet.

In his dreams, Ignis would have said something about his presence. In his dreams, Gladio would have winked at him and told him not to worry as he approached the room that the former was guarding alongside his father.

In his dreams, he would still be at home, and the holes in his chest wouldn’t feel so raw.

But this wasn’t a dream, and these weren’t his friends. They were puppets of a man he’d never met but who waited for him beyond the door Cor opened to permit him entry.

Noctis didn’t think twice before allowing himself to be shut inside—anything that got him away from the shadows of people he’d once known was welcome at this point. The solitude was such a relief that for an immeasurable moment, he merely stood inside the door with his eyes shut tight and breathed in time with the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room. It kept him grounded and stopped him from drifting away on the tide of madness that seemed to have swept into his life with the force of a hurricane.

In that regard, the near silence around him was a comfort. It didn’t lie to him or pretend to be his friend; it didn’t whisper cruel thoughts like the voice in the back of his head or remind him of things he would rather forget. The silence was nothing more than that: it wanted nothing from him, asked nothing of him, and didn’t require an answer to its unspoken question— _what next_? With his eyes closed and the rest of the world hidden by the door behind him, he could imagine that he was floating in a void where he didn’t have to deal with any of this crap.

But that couldn’t last forever, and attempting to delay the inevitable would only make it that much harder to face. Ignis had taught him that. So had Uncle Cid, Nyx, and Crowe. Everyone he cared about—or the people they pretended to be, anyway—had reminded him that there was no running from his troubles. There was only meeting them with his head held high and his spine firmly upright. It was what they would have wanted, if they were real.

With that thought in mind, Noctis pulled in a deep breath and forced himself to open his eyes. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could find his stuff and get the hell out of here. He just had to make it through this trial first.

The room around him, as with almost everything else recently, was nothing like he’d expected. Sure, it was definitely grand enough to be a king’s, but he’d always thought there would be more…well, shiny stuff. Wasn’t royalty supposed to have everything they owned dipped in gold or studded with diamonds or something? The furnishings in this chamber were relatively normal by comparison. There were two black leather sofas facing each other from opposite ends of an ornate coffee table in the center of the room, and a desk in the corner was home to an organized clutter of paperwork that reminded him painfully of Uncle Cid’s office at the garage. Three doors attached separate rooms to the main chamber; two of them were closed, but when he peered into the third, it was to find a similarly unassuming bedroom on the other side. None of it was as ostentatious as he would have thought, nor did it give the appearance that it had been arranged just for show. Between the modest furniture and the distinctly _lived-in_ feeling he got from the place, it was hard to believe that this was home to royalty.

Under different circumstances, Noctis would have been too afraid to venture forward and explore in spite of the obvious trust Cor was exhibiting by leaving him alone in the king’s private apartment. After all, the last thing he needed was to break something and make a terrible first impression (one that he kept trying to tell himself he didn’t care about). What made it impossible to stand still wasn’t the sizable television mounted on the wall or the exquisite view of the slowly waning sun over the edge of the city, though. As Noctis took a few tentative steps further into the room, his attention was drawn to the frankly ridiculous number of photographs staring back at him from every surface. And he wasn’t exaggerating—they were lined up along the table, balanced on the edge of the desk, plastered all over the finely papered walls. There were so many of them that Noctis doubted anyone would be able to keep an accurate count. The sheer number was so overwhelming that it took him a beat too long to realize that they all had one thing in common.

They were pictures of _him_.

“What the hell?” he whispered, approaching the coffee table and gingerly picking up a framed photograph of himself with Uncle Cid that he hadn’t seen in years. He’d been...six? Seven? There was a gap in his smile from where he’d lost his first tooth—he remembered thinking that he’d done something bad until his uncle explained that that was supposed to happen. They’d even taken this picture to commemorate what Uncle Cid had called Noctis reaching his _big boy years_. How the hell had King Regis gotten his hands on it?

How had he gotten his hands on _any_ of them? There were photographs from birthday parties and his first day at the diner (Cindy had taken that one, much to his endless chagrin); he even spotted a few that he didn’t know had been taken while he was sleeping or playing as a child. Some of them showed a tiny version of himself drawing sloppy crayon pictures while others were covert shots of him with his friends. They all grinned up at him, unaware of what was going to happen and so very happy about it.

Those weren’t the ones that turned his stomach, though. No, that honor went to a picture he didn’t recognize, taken in a place that had only ever been part of his past—a past he couldn’t recall. It drew him forward on unsteady feet until he was right in front of the king’s desk, a trembling hand reaching for a simple silver frame that stood in stark contrast to the others for some reason. The photo inside was nowhere near as unremarkable, although Noctis distantly wondered if anyone else would feel the same way. It wasn’t like their heart would skip a beat at the sight of a young king seated on his throne with a baby in his arms; it wouldn’t mean the same thing to them to see the wide, affectionate smile on the former’s face, as though he were witnessing sunlight for the first time. The infant was oblivious to the attention he was receiving, too concerned with the familiar blue Carbuncle doll that King Regis was playfully waving in his face while a woman Noctis recognized as the late queen watched from beside them.

It was the sort of photograph he’d imagined taking when he was a kid: a happy family, being surrounded by parents whose lives revolved around him. And if the gleam in King Regis’s eyes was any indication, that may not have been too far from the mark once upon a time.

A happy family. It was something he’d longed for in years past, but it gutted him now, leaving him breathless as he drank in every little detail. So thorough was his preoccupation that he didn’t hear the sound of approaching feet until a voice spoke quietly from behind him.

“That is one of my favorites.”

Noctis jumped, clumsily setting the frame back in place with a clatter and whirling around to see that he wasn’t as alone as he’d thought. In the open doorway to the bedroom stood the king of Lucis, who was watching him with a soft smile that Noctis had never seen in his history books or on the news. In this case, the man before him resembled the one in the photograph more than the leader he’d learned about years ago.

Right—this was _King Regis_. Was he supposed to bow or something? Did those rules not apply when you were technically royalty yourself, or did it matter since he hadn’t actually grown up here?

If the king noticed his internal struggle with formalities, he chose not to remark on it as he calmly strode closer. Watching him gave rise to a strange, foreign sensation that nested deep in Noctis’s chest, freezing him in place and forcing him to see things that he desperately wished he could ignore. A few minutes ago (had it really only been that long?), he’d thought they couldn’t possibly share anything; standing in the same room, it was impossible not to recognize the subtle similarities between them. Their hair was nearly identical in color and texture, although the king had a few streaks of silver that Noctis spotted as he moved, and their heights couldn’t be too far from one another. Even their statures were similar: skinny overall with an underlying strength that spoke of deceptively toned muscles. The shape of their eyes, the structure of their faces, even their gaits were more alike than they were different. There were still a few glaring variances—the king had hazel eyes where Noctis’s were blue, and Noctis rarely had to shave let alone sculpt a tidy beard. Regardless, there was no looking at King Regis and claiming that they weren’t related now that he was here to see the connections in person. A part of him couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it before, yet it wasn’t like he’d been laboring under any delusions that he was the son of the most powerful man in Lucis all this time either. Seeing him with his own eyes, witnessing the similarities…

 _Looking alike doesn’t make him a father_ , Noctis forcibly reminded himself before he could wander too far down that road. He’d been disappointed before; given the way today was going so far, it wasn’t wise to get his hopes up.

So, he watched in wary trepidation as the king stepped up beside him and lifted the same frame he’d been looking at a second ago. Without waiting for Noctis to reply to his statement, he mused aloud, “These photographs were your mother’s idea. She thought it only fitting that we had some small token of our time together as a family before you were taken from Insomnia. She…was an exceptionally intelligent woman, your mother.”

That last bit seemed more for his own benefit than Noctis’s, yet he couldn’t quash the microscopic twinge of pity he felt in spite of his best efforts to do so. He’d remembered his history correctly, then: the queen had died years ago. His _mother_ had died years ago. Maybe it was heartless, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care all that much. He’d spent years believing both his parents to be dead only to discover that one, at least, was still living. As such, he’d already done his grieving; there was no use mourning someone who he’d already accepted losing ages ago, even if it appeared that the king still did.

This was probably the part where he should have said something about being sorry for his loss or muttered some useless platitude that would likely only succeed in making both of them feel worse. Noctis couldn’t quite get his tongue around the words, though. He silently surveyed the king instead, watching him grip the frame a moment longer before gently replacing it on the desk with almost excessive care.

When he looked over at Noctis a second later, it was like staring into the eyes of a starving man who had just been offered food. His gaze roamed Noctis’s face as though he had never seen him before and was hunting for the child he’d been twenty years ago. It was hard not to tense awkwardly in response or point out that he wasn’t that kid, even though he was positive that the king was bound to notice it eventually. The longer he searched, the more certain Noctis grew that he was going to find something wrong—he didn’t carry himself the right way or he didn’t have the right _look_ to be the prince of Lucis. Something was going to disappoint him, and when it did, there would be no more of that warm half-smile that had been pulling at the corners of his mouth ever since he’d made his presence known. The baby in King Regis’s favorite photo and the person standing in front of him weren’t the same, and it was only a matter of time until he realized it.

Despite that voice in his head that whispered to him about not getting his hopes up, the moment he was waiting for didn’t present itself. The king’s smile didn’t falter, nor did his eyes betray even an ounce of disappointment. If anything, he appeared to be holding in an emotion Noctis couldn’t decipher. For just a fraction of a second, he would have called it _pride_ , but that couldn’t be it. King Regis didn’t even know him, and breathing wasn’t much of an accomplishment.

Well, according to that letter, it apparently _was_.

His expression must have darkened at that, because the corners of the king’s eyes tightened at the same time as his smile turned sad.

“I cannot begin to imagine how you must be feeling, Noctis,” he murmured gently, sincerely sympathetic in a way that hurt to hear. Noctis had to shore up his resolve to keep from falling into the trap of allowing that to sway him. He hadn’t come here to be patronized, after all.

“No, I guess you can’t,” he offered with a sarcastic twist of his lips.

King Regis had either anticipated that sort of response or was used to masking his reactions. Whichever it was, he didn’t even flinch. Rather, he nodded in acknowledgement and continued, “No manner of apology is adequate in conveying my regret at having deceived you for so many years. Had the circumstances been less dire, I would have chosen another path.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No,” confirmed the king without delay. Noctis had to hand it to him: at least he wasn’t making excuses.

That still wasn’t enough to keep him from pointing out, “And you thought some random letter would cover it.”

“If I did, we would not be here now,” he countered patiently, motioning towards the sofas. “Any questions you have, I will answer. You need only ask.”

Noctis refrained from remarking that giving voice to his curiosity had never led to answers before—it had only fostered more lies until he was practically drowning in them. Now wasn’t the time for that, though. If King Regis was offering information, then he was going to take it. Better late than never, right?

The problem was that the questions he’d been collecting over the years, the things he’d desperately wanted to know when he was a kid, even the lies he’d sworn to address a few hours ago fled from his reach the moment he was perched uneasily next to the king. All that he’d been prepared to say when he was still at home in the comfort of what was no longer his room didn’t seem to mean anything now: in the wake of his arrival and subsequent discovery that this farce went a whole lot deeper than simply his uncle and Nyx, everything he’d hoped to ask before suddenly sounded so unimportant in his own mind. When he whittled his thoughts down to what truly mattered, it left him with just one question.

“Why?”

To his credit, King Regis didn’t make him explain what he meant, nor did he attempt to placate him with shallow assurances that it was for his own good. His expression instead turned pensive, and he nodded slowly for a moment before he finally replied.

“Yes, I suppose that _is_ the only question that matters,” he sighed, taking a deep breath. After another pause, he inquired with surprising reticence, “What do you know of the four mages?”

Noctis blinked uncomprehendingly. _Four_? He’d only heard of three, and even then, he wouldn’t say he was an expert by any stretch of the imagination. Well, there was no time like the present to start showing what a disappointment he was.

“Uh, just a couple things,” he admitted with a halfhearted shrug. Surprisingly enough, King Regis didn’t seem put off by his lack of knowledge.

“I suspected as much. Crowe taught you of the Messenger and the Oracle?”

Frowning at the weak pang of residual anger that struck him at those words, Noctis deadpanned, “Yeah, she did.”

The _under your orders_ was implied, but the king appeared to hear it all the same. Regardless, he ignored Noctis’s tone to explain, “There is another mage that takes human form, one who does not abide by the same divine creed as the others. His is a tale known to only a few, but his influence over the world is indeed extensive. He is perhaps the most powerful of the four.”

“I’m guessing he’s the _monster_ you mentioned.”

King Regis nodded, bitterly replying, “There is no description for him that truly encompasses the evil of which he is capable.”

“But the mages are supposed to work for the gods, right?” asked Noctis in confusion, scratching absently at his palm. King Regis’s eyes followed the motion with undue intensity, although it did not distract him from the question. 

“Ideally, yes,” replied the king, his voice uncertain despite his words. “The other three have ever embodied the grace that was bestowed upon them by the Six. The fourth has long since broken the bond between himself and the task which he was entrusted.”

Well, that certainly explained why Crowe hadn’t taught Noctis anything about him. As far as he could tell, it sounded like the guy was a total psychopath. Who in their right mind would decide to thumb their nose at the Six?

That, however, wasn’t the biggest concern on Noctis’s mind. The fourth mage’s bad decisions weren’t his problem, so he instead focused on what was truly important: “And we play into all this…where?”

 _We_ —he didn’t like the way it sounded, but King Regis’s eyes brightened marginally at the idea that Noctis had looped them together like some kind of team. Even after everything, even with the vague sense of injustice still festering at his core, Noctis didn’t have the heart to correct himself. Twenty years of lies and silence aside, the king hadn’t given him any reason to be that cruel—not yet.

“It was my own doing. I was foolish and believed that I could stand against one whose power cannot be described in words.” Pausing to shake his head, King Regis huffed a humorless laugh. “To be young is a blessing, but there are costs. I did not consider them then as I do now.”

Nodding, Noctis assumed, “So, you ticked him off.”

This time, the king’s laugh was slightly more genuine. “To put it bluntly, yes, I did. One of my men had discovered that he was conducting experiments of the most heinous nature on any who were unfortunate enough to fall into his trap. When I defied him, he swore vengeance against me. I never predicted the consequences of such a promise, nor did I have the strength to stop him from fulfilling it the day he made you his target.”

There was a well of sadness in his tone that cut Noctis to the bone. This king—this _man_ that he thought he would have nothing in common with was describing the way he’d felt all day: helpless, with no hope of salvation from the plight that befell him. That didn’t excuse his actions; it didn’t earn him forgiveness for the things he should have done years ago. Still, Noctis couldn’t entirely blame him for having taken on an enemy that he never had any chance of winning against despite the consequences. The tiny part of him that tended to speak with Ignis’s voice had to admit that he understood a little of what it was like to be trapped with no decent options.

The rest, however, refused to budge. Yes, it was tragic. Yes, it was unfortunate. That didn’t mean there weren’t better ways to have gone about protecting him without abandoning him for two decades. Maybe he couldn’t think of anything right now, but _Noctis_ wasn’t the one with an entire palace full of advisors and strategists fit for the task. If they were capable of running a kingdom, then it should have been a simple matter to defend one baby no matter how mad the mage was. Even if they couldn’t, even if there had been no way to make it work, they didn’t need to lie to him about it. They could have told him— _everyone_ could have told him.

When it came to putting those thoughts into words, however, Noctis was at a loss. All he could manage was a terse, “And everybody knew about this?”

Another pause, heavier than the last, before the king quietly replied, “Some more than others.”

What a diplomatic way of confirming everything he’d suspected to be the case. It wasn’t bad enough that they were all keeping an eye on him so that they could ship him back to the Citadel when their promised service had expired—they’d known about this lingering threat and hadn’t said a word. They’d lied through their teeth and smiled all the while.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, not that he was attempting to hide them, because the king heaved a sigh as he elaborated, “It was imperative that you were not aware of your origins. Had anyone but a select few realized, there was too great a risk that news of your whereabouts would bring you to harm. I could not allow that—I _would_ not.”

His resolve might have been touching if it weren’t for the fact that it didn’t help in the slightest. Noctis simply scoffed, muttering, “So, what—you leave me in the middle of nowhere and hope for the best? Not really the greatest plan, if you ask me.”

“I was careful to ensure that your security was never in question,” argued King Regis, albeit without much heat. “The most trustworthy and capable of my Glaives accompanied you, and Cid was once an accomplished swordsman in his own right. Not for a moment in the past twenty years have I feared for your safety while you were in their hands, in spite of some…unforeseen circumstances,” he admitted, a wince of pain darkening his expression at a memory Noctis was already familiar enough with to know what he meant. It did little to cool the fire that seemed to be flowing through his veins, making his palms itch and his heart race.

Why was King Regis so calm about all this? Noctis wished more than anything that he would get angry, that he would give Noctis a reason to hate him as much as he wanted to. It wasn’t fair that he had an answer for everything—it wasn’t fair that he made this seem so sensible, so reasonable. Just like in the minor arguments he’d had with Ignis when they were kids, he couldn’t find any chinks in the armor of the king’s explanation that he could exploit. It was all so simple when he put it that way, but it didn’t _help_. Noctis had thought that getting his answers would make him feel better, yet all it did was leave him with an empty sort of hopelessness that refused to be filled.

And the sympathy he found in the king’s eyes did nothing to ease his irritation. Noctis didn’t want his pity, the same as he hadn’t wanted his letter or his lies. He didn’t want rational arguments that put to rest anything he might have to say or the demands he still needed to make; he couldn’t stomach the way every word King Regis said poked holes in the indignant balloon that had inflated within his chest, leaving him drained and incapable of coming up with any sort of response that wouldn’t sound childish. Everything that occurred to him was too juvenile to utter with conviction in the face of more heavily weighted facts: _You left me. You lied to me._

_You didn’t love me enough to keep me._

Not one valid reason. Not one useful rebuttal.

Ultimately, Noctis gave up trying. There was nothing he could say that would change the past, and he had no doubt that the king would have an answer for whatever accusations he did muster.

Which left just one final question.

“What happens to me now?” he asked quietly, staring at his hands to avoid King Regis’s eyes. “You don’t think this guy is going to come after me anymore?”

The immediate reassurances that the king had been able to offer earlier in the conversation were conspicuously absent this time, and when Noctis glanced up at him, it was to see that King Regis’s gaze was a million miles away. It took a minute before he finally reacted, his expression grim as he slid closer and gestured towards Noctis’s bandaged left hand.

“May I?” he inquired in lieu of an actual answer.

His evasion set Noctis on edge, but he held out his hand with a silent nod anyway. After years of Uncle Cid treating his various bruises and scrapes, it was odd to watch the king gently undo Nyx’s handiwork and unwrap the bandage in unhurried concentration. Noctis was accustomed to rough, calloused fingers that had been hardened by years of manual labor, whereas King Regis’s were smooth and thin where they touched his own. The difference wasn’t as unsettling as he thought it would be, much to his surprise, and that pervasive itch in his palms seemed to lessen somewhat as the bandage fell away to reveal the angry red cut he’d opened that morning.

“We have reason to suspect that the threat to your life will be minimal now that you have come of age,” King Regis finally explained, his voice hardly more than a whisper as he examined the injury with a discomfiting level of care. Seeming to belatedly realize what he’d said, he smirked and added in a low, thoughtful voice, “Well, as minimal as can be expected for any prince.”

“What if I’m no good at it?”

That snapped the king out of whatever funk he’d fallen into, and he met Noctis’s gaze with a deep frown. “Good at what?”

Waving his free hand in a vague gesture, Noctis self-consciously muttered, “Being the… _prince of Lucis_.”

“Noctis,” sighed King Regis, his expression easing into a smile, “you need not concern yourself with such things. Being a prince will come as naturally to you as breathing. Of that, I am certain.”

“No offense or anything, but you don’t even know me,” Noctis argued plainly. He hadn’t meant to sound as callous as he probably did, but it didn’t seem like the king was offended. Actually, the observation prompted a very different shift in his expression, allowing a level of determination Noctis hadn’t seen yet to shine through for the first time. Cupping Noctis’s hand in both of his own, King Regis leaned closer so that he couldn’t look away.

“When you were four years old, you befriended a stray dog that anyone else would have ignored. When you were five, you allowed two young boys into your heart when all the friends you ever had were transient and impermanent. At the age of eight, you risked your life and nearly died to save one frog that had wandered far from its owner.” His smile widened, and Noctis didn’t think he was imagining the pure, genuine admiration that stared back at him from the king’s eyes. “My one great regret is that I was not able to give you a home here where you always belonged, but never doubt that I have gone to great lengths to know you, Noctis. You are my son. Time and distance have not changed that. Neither have they convinced me that you are somehow unfit for the position you were destined to hold.”

Tears filled Noctis’s eyes unbidden, and he blinked them back while wordlessly shaking his head. Before he could open his mouth to point out that none of that was as special as he made it sound, the king cut him off, “You will not be alone. Ignis has trained to advise you, as he has done in various capacities throughout your childhood. Gladiolus is your Shield, just as his father has been mine. They will ever be at your side, and so will I.”

Noctis knew that was meant to comfort him, to make him feel better about a situation he had no control over. As much as he appreciated the sentiment, though, the mention of Ignis and Gladio merely intensified that empty hole that had been drilled through his heart. His advisor and his Shield? That was what they had been training for all this time? Those weren’t simple jobs; they weren’t positions that you were hired for if you had the appropriate qualifications. No, those were roles that, like royalty itself, a person had to be groomed for. From what he’d read, Shields spent their entire lives preparing to protect their kings—he had been listening to Gladio talk about his training ever since they’d met. And Ignis…

_Fancypants school, huh?_

He had to give them some credit: if they’d kept a secret this big from him for so long, then they’d clearly been trained well.

And it was all King Regis’s doing.

That didn’t quite fill him with the same animosity it had earlier, especially not when he saw tears shining in the king’s eyes to match his own. Like Noctis, he refused to let them fall, but their presence was undeniable. Everything he hadn’t put into words, all the answers to the questions Noctis had deemed too childish to ask were contained within the depths of that gaze, thawing some of the ice that had frozen around his heart over the last few hours. It didn’t fix things—it didn’t make up for lost time or even earn a fraction of his forgiveness. But maybe…it could be a start. If the Citadel was going to be his new home, whatever that meant anymore, then he had little choice but to try.

As if his thoughts had been broadcast for the king to hear, the latter squeezed his hand a bit tighter. His expression was so deeply affectionate, so thoroughly apologetic, that Noctis could almost believe him when he said, “I love you, Noctis. One day, I hope that I might be deserving of your trust in return.”

Trust. Not love—trust. It was a relief to hear it phrased like that, because Noctis’s mind was spinning too fast for him to even consider whether he might be capable of loving someone who had lied to him all these years. Trust, on the other hand… Well, it would be a hell of a stretch, but he might eventually be able to manage that.

“Yeah,” he murmured after a moment, attempting a smile despite the way the ring in his pocket suddenly seemed to weigh a million pounds. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, anyone see that Episode Ignis trailer? If you haven't, YOU SHOULD! If you have, then a bit of a fun fact for you: the Regis we see in that trailer is what the Regis in this story looks like, albeit slightly older since Noct is now 20. Just for some reference!


	21. Somnus Ultima

When Noctis left King Regis’s chambers and stepped out into the corridor feeling like a different person from the one who had entered earlier, it was nearly dinnertime. Well, in _Hammerhead_ , anyway. Against his better judgment, Noctis had agreed to meet the king again for a late meal in a couple of hours once he’d had a chance to get situated in his new room and screw his head back on straight. At the moment, it was swimming with everything he’d learned, reducing his mind to a nonsensical maelstrom of thoughts that all vied for his attention at once. The discussion hadn’t gone quite the way he’d predicted—far from it, as a matter of fact—but he was still as thrown by the whole thing as he had been all day. He wasn’t the only one, either: maybe it had been his imagination, but by the time the king showed him out and entrusted him to Gladio’s care, he’d looked about as ready for a break as Noctis. He figured he could understand that, given that the guy ran the entire kingdom. If anyone had enough on their plate without adding awkward family reunions into the mix, it was him.  

The idea that Noctis might have made a mistake didn’t hit him until he was standing in the hall between two Shields, one of them his own. A voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like Gladio’s kept asking what the hell he thought he was doing. Making friends with the king? Letting him think that they could ever be more than strangers? Offering him the benefit of the doubt and agreeing to some stupid dinner when what he should have done was holed up in whatever room they gave him and refused to come out? It was insane. He hadn’t come here to play nice—he hadn’t _wanted_ to come here at all.

Yet here he was, standing in the middle of the Citadel having said almost nothing that he’d planned. Here he was, with a treacherously warm feeling in his chest that hadn’t been there before he’d talked to the king. Talked to his—

_No_ , he reminded himself before he could even think of it. _He’s not that._

But he wasn’t the terrible person Noctis had been imagining either. As much as he wanted to argue to the contrary, he couldn’t lie about that. There was no erasing from his mind the king’s misty-eyed smile when Noctis muttered a reluctant assent to a birthday dinner together, just the two of them, so that they could discuss the future with clearer heads; there was no hiding from the affectionate gaze that had stared back at him from so many baby pictures, all of them blending together in his memory now. Noctis couldn’t ignore the gentleness with which the king had led him into an opulent bathroom to disinfect and wrap a new bandage around his hand, just as he was helpless to quash the longing that had struck him at the notion that it always could have been like this.

It hadn’t been. He knew that better than anyone. Even so, there was no denying that a part of him had calmed since meeting King Regis—the man he couldn’t call his father, not yet or anytime in the near future. He hadn’t earned the right to that title the way Uncle Cid had, and Noctis was unable to say how long that would take, if the king could even manage it at all. An incomprehensible mess of emotions had settled in, simultaneously made better and worse by a conversation he’d never wanted to have, and Noctis was still so confused that he couldn’t tell up from down anymore.

That was why he was supposed to be taking a break before they embarked on the next stage of their journey—dinner. Noctis couldn’t bring himself to think about how that was going to go right now, not when he was hovering over the edge of a precipice, afraid to take the plunge. The demands and anger that had consumed him earlier loomed behind, reaching out to grab him, yet an even deadlier prospect lay ahead: opening his shattered heart to this new life, whatever it meant for him.

Opening his heart to the man who would have been his father in another life.

Too soon—it was too soon to begin to entertain the notion. In time, he could revisit—

In time? There was no _in time_. Time was the problem here, not the solution; enough of it had passed since the king bothered with him to make that inescapably clear. Decades had expired, _in time_ had come and gone, and there had been no change until today. More wasted moments, wasted hours, wasted years without knowing who or what he was meant to be—was that what he had to look forward to? How long did it take to mend a broken heart? How long did it take to renew the trust he’d once had in the people he thought were his friends only to realize that they stuck around because he was their duty? How long did it take to rebuild the crumbled remains of what used to be his life?

And who did he blame—the king or the mage who forced his hand?

Which brought him right back to square one. It was difficult to determine what he was supposed to believe when everything he’d ever known was gone, replaced by something he wanted to hate despite every ounce of logic telling him he shouldn’t. The cocoon he’d been forced into as a baby had broken open, but the world on the other side wasn’t what he’d anticipated; he couldn’t figure out whether it was good or bad or somewhere in between. Two decades of delusions had been destroyed in a matter of seconds. Now, here he was, with no idea of who he was or who he was about to become and a mess in his brain that he didn’t know how to clean up.

Regardless of the mismatched, confused thoughts swirling around inside his head, however, this wasn’t the time to ponder his next move—or, to be more precise, the moves he’d already taken and all the ways he’d probably screwed things up. Like it or not, he _was_ still standing in the middle of the Citadel and doubtless had been for long enough to be a cause for concern now.

As Noctis suspected, when he raised his head from where it was bowed in something that smelled faintly of defeat, Gladio’s eyes were on him and a deep crease cut across his forehead. It was weird—he’d seen that expression on so many occasions, usually when his friend was worried about him but couldn’t ask if he was all right without it sounding sappy. Noctis had usually taken that as his cue to bury whatever was bothering him and make more of an effort to put Gladio’s mind at ease.

This wasn’t like that, though, and he didn’t feel any inclination to make things easier on the guy who’d taken his friend’s place. His _Shield_ , if only from the truth.

Yes, Noctis was still angry that the king had ignored him for nearly his entire life. After speaking to him and hearing what he had to say, however, his honest absence was at least slightly more palatable than a present lie.

Gladio wasn’t as vocal with regards to his intelligence as Ignis, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t just as sharp. Noctis could tell the moment he realized that his transgressions _hadn’t_ been forgiven, because his demeanor shifted from that familiar façade of concern to a more distant, professional expression Noctis had never seen before.

“All set, Your Highness?”

A few hours ago, Noctis had no doubt that a flame of anger would have erupted in the pit of his stomach, fueling a few well-placed retorts about where he could stick his _all set_. The title alone sounded unnatural coming out of Gladio’s mouth, although he supposed he should probably get used to it; everyone would likely be calling him that soon enough. Noctis had no energy left for a fight, though, nor did he have any desire to duke it out in the middle of the corridor. So, he did the next best thing.

He started walking.

There was a moment where no one else moved, then Gladio’s heavy footsteps were rushing to keep pace with him. Noctis didn’t slow down or turn; he didn’t give his Shield a chance to remind him that he had no idea where he was going. He simply walked, retracing his steps back to the elevators in silence and jabbing the call button with a little more force than was strictly necessary.

It was hard to tell whether Gladio was trying to respect his feelings, focused on maintaining his detached exterior, or a combination of the two. Whatever it was, he didn’t say a word when the doors slid open, not even to point out that Noctis didn’t have a key to work the elevator in the first place. That more than anything else solidified the fact that the person accompanying him was not _his_ Gladio—he might look like him, might even sound like him, but he was very much _other_. _His_ Gladio would have made some smart-ass remark about how he wasn’t bound to get very far when he couldn’t work the lift. _His_ Gladio would have laughed at his irritation and told him to get over his petty bullshit, especially when he had dinner with the king to worry about.

_His_ Gladio wouldn’t have wordlessly followed him into the elevator, inserted an identical key to the one Cor had carried into the panel, and stared straight ahead as though Noctis didn’t exist.

That was odd in itself—if he was Noctis’s Shield, then wasn’t it his job to keep an eye on him? Instead, he appeared to find the shiny metal doors inordinately fascinating. To his apparently limited knowledge, Gladio wasn’t one to beat around the bush, yet it was like walking on eggshells as they rode the elevator down one floor and emerged into a similar corridor to the one upstairs.

This time, Noctis didn’t have the benefit of foresight to get him around, so he was forced to wait for Gladio to make the first move. If he expected that to prompt a few words, however, he was sorely mistaken. With a pointed grunt characteristic of his former friend, Gladio took off at a pretty good clip; Noctis found himself almost struggling to keep up.

As it turned out, he realized a few seconds later that he didn’t need to. This floor mirrored the king’s so precisely that he had to wonder if the elevator hadn’t malfunctioned and dropped them back where they’d started. Gladio didn’t seem to think anything of it as he led them down the same long hallway and rounded the corner to find an identical door, only this one wasn’t flanked by two Shields. There were six Kingsglaive operatives he didn’t recognize lining the corridor outside what he assumed was the entrance to his own chambers, their eyes trained straight ahead and muscles tensed as if they were just waiting for a reason to attack.

The sight brought Noctis up short, and it took a colossal effort to keep putting one foot in front of the other before Gladio noticed his trepidation. What was all the muscle for? Did King Regis think he was going to run away and stationed the guards on his door as a precaution? If so, it was a rather ridiculous assumption: Noctis couldn’t operate the elevator without help, and he doubted that the stairs would be a viable option. (Talk about a hassle—he wasn’t about to climb down a few dozen floors when he’d probably be caught and dragged back up here in no time at all.)

Whatever the reason for the added supervision, Gladio didn’t pay any of the guards a bit of attention as he stepped up to the door and swung it open without so much as knocking. That shook Noctis out of his sardonic musings with a grimace.

_Okay, first order of business: make sure there’s a lock._

Admittedly, he had a hard time believing that there wouldn’t be one. After all, the chamber he followed Gladio into had just about everything else he could possibly imagine and then some.

It was by no means as magnificent as what the king could boast of, but Noctis had a feeling that was done on purpose. The place was already twice the size of the apartment he’d grown up in, and that was _before_ he checked out any of the other rooms. From the looks of things, the general layout was the same: huge living space he wouldn’t know what to do with, a bedroom off to the left, and two other chambers on the right. It would have been overwhelming in its scale if he hadn’t already seen something similar, although Noctis couldn’t claim to be comfortable with the idea of all this being _his_. It helped a little that, unlike King Regis’s far more cultured tastes, the furnishings here were entirely different. Noctis couldn’t help wondering if he’d had the Citadel staff go out of their way to find stuff that was so…well, _normal_. Even though everything was brand new, it wasn’t like what he had expected to have thrust upon him as he entered this new life. There was a black couch and two matching armchairs, all of which were plush and casual compared to what the king had in his chambers; the coffee table and desk matched one another, but they were nowhere near as elaborate in design. If it weren’t for the fact that everything was clearly made for a larger area, none of it would have seemed at all out of place in Hammerhead.

Which was probably the exact reason they’d been chosen to grace the prince of Lucis’s apartment. He supposed he could give the king a few grudging points for that.

Or maybe he was being a bit too optimistic about who it was that had organized all this.

The king was really pulling out all the stops on making sure he wasn’t alone, that much was obvious, although Noctis couldn’t tell if it was to keep an eye on him or help him feel more at home. Whatever his point in all this, there was no quashing the twinge of disdain he felt when he saw Nyx seated comfortably on the sofa or Ignis wandering around the sitting room, inspecting the place as though he was hunting for rats. Would it be too rude to tell him that he need look no further, that Noctis could already spot three? Probably—he’d save it for another time.

“Ah, there you are,” Ignis announced, turning to greet them with his usual staid expression. Ordinarily, Noctis didn’t take issue with it. Today, however, it just looked cold.

“Everything go all right?” asked Nyx.

“’Bout as good as you’d expect,” grunted Gladio before Noctis could respond— _if_ he chose to respond, which he hadn’t quite decided yet. Regardless, he found himself bristling at the fact that apparently his Shield wasn’t simply a bodyguard, but the guy who would do his talking for him from now on. That was _so_ not going to fly, especially knowing Gladio as well as he did.

As well as he _thought_ he did.

If Ignis recognized his indignation—who was he kidding, Ignis noticed _everything_ —he chose not to address it. Instead, he briefly glanced around the room with a keen eye and mused, “We were beginning to wonder if His Majesty intended on keeping Noct for the rest of the evening.”

“We’re meeting up for dinner, so he kind of is,” muttered Noctis in an attempt to regain some level of say in the conversation. Ignis must have thought he wouldn’t deign to speak, if the state of his pleasantly surprised smile was anything to go by.

“A bit of good news, then.” With a nod of approval, Ignis plucked his phone from his pocket in one fluid motion and checked the time as he offered, “Perhaps you’d like a tour of your new lodgings? We might as well make use of the time in case you prefer not to be bothered later this evening.”

What Noctis wanted to say was that he preferred not to be bothered _now_ , but he pursed his lips to avoid a potential slip. Like it or not, this was their new arrangement, and he was going to have to live with it. If he were _really_ vengeful, then he would have resolved to discuss getting a new advisor with the king at dinner. There had to be about a million conflicts of interests involved here, not least of which being that Noctis didn’t trust Ignis or Gladio or _anyone_ enough for them to advise and protect him anymore. As justified as he felt in his opinion, however, Noctis simply couldn’t do it. Did Ignis deserve it? Sure. Was Noctis going to stoop that low and stab him in the back the way he’d done? No. It wouldn’t make him feel any better: the part of him that still considered Ignis and Gladio his friends would writhe with guilt, and much as he hated to admit it, retribution wouldn’t heal his pain over their betrayal. Nothing could ease that persistent heartache.

If he had no other say in the matter, if there was no way to bring back the people he’d once known and trusted as his brothers, then he could at least do this much. It wouldn’t bring him peace, but it would at least assure him that he was taking the high road. Anymore, that was the best he could do.

So, Noctis took to following Ignis around in silence as the latter explained everything he didn’t want to know. There was admittedly a lot more of it than he’d anticipated, even after the king had already given him so much information.

For one thing, Ignis wasn’t merely his advisor—he was Noctis’s _chamberlain_. That went so far beyond being a butler or confidant that it wasn’t even funny. If he’d thought he might escape with only seeing Ignis on occasion, he was sadly mistaken: they’d basically spend every waking moment together, just as he would with Gladio if he was understanding what a Shield was supposed to be. When he was a kid—hell, even a few hours ago—he would have jumped at that opportunity. He’d spent so many years thinking about how amazing it would be if his best friends were always around, if they got to hang out whenever they wanted and not just one day each month. His younger self would have been thrilled at the prospect of living in the same place, seeing them every day, even working together in whatever capacity would be expected of him.

That wasn’t how he felt as he trailed along behind Ignis. It was like there had been a hole cut in the bottom of his stomach, leaving him empty with no hope of filling the cavity left in the wake of his loss. How was he supposed to survive every day seeing people he thought he knew and understanding that they weren’t the same? How was he meant to treat them professionally when all he could think about was the lies they’d told and the trust they’d broken? Maybe he should be grateful that they were so good at their jobs that they’d pulled the wool over his eyes for this long—perhaps a real prince would have been. Still, Noctis had only been one for a few hours, so he figured not being ready to take on everything the job entailed was excusable.

The saving grace that came with Ignis being…well, _Ignis_? Noctis didn’t have to say a word, which was better for both of them since he was constantly on the verge of spouting a few truths that would put the ones they should have told him to shame. Ignis was an expert at keeping up a steady stream of one-sided conversation, having gotten plenty of practice after Noctis’s accident, so there wasn’t much need for his input at all. He could quietly survey the sitting room while Ignis told him about new furniture and the fully-stocked kitchenette he hadn’t noticed occupying the corner where the king had mounted a television in his own apartment. He nodded politely (and not at _all_ tersely) when Ignis informed him that they had installed a theater room filled with game consoles that he didn’t have to share with anyone for a change, and that the other chamber was a guest bedroom where his visitors would be allowed to stay.

He didn’t mention that the food wouldn’t taste right or that he’d been just as comfortable on the worn, threadbare sofa that Uncle Cid had had since he was a baby. He didn’t point out that he wouldn’t be getting any visitors because anyone who mattered to him had vanished, eaten by the lie they’d been telling him his entire life. Maybe Prompto would have gotten a kick out of this whole thing, but Noctis didn’t know how to even begin telling him, so that wasn’t going to happen for a while.

By the time they made it to his new bedroom, he was well and truly fed up with the whole charade. Despite the fact that he didn’t know these people at all, Ignis had become adept at reading his mind and his moods over the years; they were the ones who had changed, but he had stayed the same. As such, Noctis had no doubt that Ignis was well aware of every unflattering, bitter, downright spiteful thought going through his head. It was a testament to the true professional he was that he didn’t address them, that he didn’t pull him aside and attempt to assuage his irritation the way he would have done before his lies had been blown wide open and laid out for Noctis to see. Instead, he kept a respectable distance, and the guilt Noctis had seen on his face when they crossed paths in the corridor earlier was entirely absent. What had replaced it was almost worse: that cold and calculating look of someone who was just doing their job.

Then again, Noctis had always been his job. When he wasn’t sure of anything else, he could be positive about that much.

The only thing that kept him from booting Ignis out of the room and slamming the door behind him was the sight of his duffel bag, unopened and unbothered in the middle of a bed that had to be at least three times the size of the one he had in Hammerhead. In that instant, it didn’t matter what Ignis was telling him about mattresses and bathrooms and amenities and all that garbage. Noctis ignored him altogether and made a beeline for his things like metal drawn to a magnet.

He honestly didn’t know what he was expecting when he grabbed his bag, dragged it towards him, and unzipped the main compartment. On the one hand, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find that the duffel was all he had left and that someone had emptied its contents into a dumpster in the city, never to be seen again. Still, as foolish as it might have been, Nyx’s promise that no one was going to take it from him rang in his ears despite his best attempts to drown it out. Noctis didn’t trust Nyx—he _didn’t_ —but his traitorous brain seemed to be taking a little longer than he would have liked to get with the program.

Given that everything was exactly as he’d left it, however, that would probably happen later rather than sooner. The moment he peered inside the bag, half dreading what he might find (or _not_ find), Noctis had to breathe a sigh of relief. All of his clothes were there, crumpled and wrinkled and totally _not_ what anyone would deem worthy of a prince; his books were still crammed into the side, and his treasures were still wrapped neatly at the bottom when he sifted through to make sure nothing was missing. Maybe Noctis shouldn’t have been so shocked to discover that it was all there, right down to the last shiny Oracle Ascension Coin and dirty sock. After all, the king had been adamant before they’d parted ways that he wasn’t looking to change who he was; Noctis had bitten his tongue against pointing out that revealing all these secrets already _had_ changed him, and he wasn’t sure whether it was for the better yet. At least he was trying, which was a damn sight more than he’d been anticipating.

Even so, that thought somehow hadn’t extended to his things when they were out of sight but not so out of mind. His clothing wasn’t regal enough to wear around the Citadel, nor did he have any doubt that the things he’d valued since he was a kid would look ridiculous alongside the finery that the king (probably with a hell of a lot of help from Ignis) had furnished for him. Who was to say that they _wouldn’t_ have chucked it all as soon as he wasn’t around to stop them?

Realizing that they hadn’t done so didn’t renew any of his trust, not really, but Noctis would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him feel at least a little better that he wouldn’t be spending his first night in the Citadel with absolutely nothing of his old life to give him comfort. It wasn’t until Carbuncle’s blue head popped up from amidst the sea of his other belongings that Noctis paused, frowning slightly at the idea that the old life he kept thinking about wasn’t his _oldest_ life. There was one thing in this bag that had accompanied him from the very beginning, even further than his treasures and the nightlight he was _so_ not taking out around Gladio. If the king’s photographs were any indication, then Carbuncle had been his best friend far longer than he’d thought; he’d been Noctis’s comfort in exile, and he was here now to welcome him back to the place where…where…

_“My one great regret is that I was not able to give you a home here where you always belonged.”_

Noctis shook King Regis’s voice from his head, swallowing down a wave of confused emotion that threatened to overwhelm him as he stroked a gentle hand over Carbuncle’s synthetic fur. He really didn’t have the energy or desire to consider the implications of that statement. Right now, the most he could do was take comfort where he could get it, even if it admittedly wasn’t the most adult place.

Ignis was no idiot: he had to know what was going through Noctis’s mind as he stood quietly beside the door and gave him a moment to process all this. That didn’t make it any easier when he finally said, “You should find everything is in order. I was reluctant to begin unpacking your things in the event that you wanted to do so yourself.”

“Yeah, you got that right,” Noctis scoffed, his hand tightening on Carbuncle for just a fraction of a second before he gently settled him deeper in the bag and zipped him safely inside. Yeah, he wanted to unpack, but not with Ignis watching. He’d wait until he was alone.

“In that case,” began his new chamberlain after awkwardly clearing his throat, “I suppose I shall leave you to it. If you need anything, we’ll be just through he—”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Noctis hadn’t meant to say those words, hadn’t even meant to _think_ them, yet they hovered in the air between him and Ignis nevertheless. In that instant, the pretense of peace that the latter had been carefully maintaining shattered, jagged edges of their old selves littering the floor and waiting to be stepped on. He clearly hadn’t been expecting to have this conversation so soon, not that Noctis had either. Regardless, his mouth had made his decision for him, and Ignis appeared at a loss as to how he should respond. Noctis could tell by the stiff set of Ignis’s shoulders, by the way he held himself almost _too_ straight, even for him. He could tell when Ignis tilted his head slightly to the side instead of facing him like he ordinarily would have.

But he apparently wasn’t willing to give up the fight to preserve his cautious, casual exterior—not yet. He wouldn’t be Ignis if he was.

“Beg pardon?” he inquired calmly, his voice betraying none of the tension he exuded. More than anything else, that was what gave Noctis the wherewithal to continue.

Huffing, he folded his arms over his chest and mused, “You’re just going to stand there and pretend everything’s normal.”

“Everything _is_ normal, Highness.”

“The hell it is!” he blurted out incredulously. His disbelief did nothing to shake Ignis’s resolve, however.

“I understand that this is all new to you,” he explained, finally turning to face him. Noctis didn’t know whether he wanted to take comfort in his stoic expression or punch it. “Regardless, _this_ is normal. It will merely take some time for you to adjust.”

_Time to adjust? Time to_ adjust _?_

_Adjusting_ was what people did when they moved to a new place or started a new job; it was what happened when you made a change and had to get used to it. _Adjusting_ didn’t apply to this situation. People who had to assume an entirely different identity while familiar faces from their old life pretended not to know them wasn’t a matter of adjusting.

The anger that Noctis thought had all but bled out of him over the course of the day flared right up at Ignis’s words, heating him to his core with a visceral sort of fury. He honestly wasn’t sure what would have been worse, for Ignis to come out and apologize or for him to have said nothing at all. Distantly, he recognized that this whole thing was backwards: he had arrived in Insomnia believing that the king deserved his ire, yet _he_ wasn’t the one who lit a fire in Noctis’s gut. After all, he didn’t know King Regis, not really—it was difficult to feel so strongly about what he had done when he had no emotional connection to him whatsoever. If anything, it was a lot easier to look the other way in his case. The king had made his decisions long ago, before Noctis was old enough to understand the implications; now that he was an adult, those choices still felt removed from him even if their consequences were altering every facet of his life. In spite of the confusion that had clawed at him since leaving the king, the most he could summon was a numb sort of disappointment.

Not with Ignis and Gladio, though.

They had made their decision every day for the last fifteen years; Nyx had made his for longer, as had Uncle Cid. The people he’d once trusted chose to lie to him all this time, and now that the truth was out in the open, they chose to act as though nothing was wrong. Just another day—places to go, business to take care of, a prince no longer in need of babysitting. Show’s over, nothing to see here.

That seemed to be what Ignis wanted him to think, anyway. His expression was shuttered for the first time that Noctis could ever remember, which only served to remind him that this wasn’t the person he’d grown up with. This wasn’t the person who had read to him when he had trouble sounding out words or struggled to bake him pastries that settled his stomach when medication and nightmares churned it up; the man standing before him wasn’t the one who had helped him with his homework or congratulated him with a new recipe when he graduated (in a sense) from Crowe’s makeshift school. No, the Ignis standing in his new room was more distant than the one he’d known, more detached and stoic. This was the Ignis that Noctis had thought was reserved for his duties, and that was probably true—Noctis _was_ his duty now.

Attempting to remind himself that that was the case didn’t help, nor did it make tamping down on the indignation he felt at Ignis’s refusal to rise to the bait any easier. Was it so wrong of him to have expected better from them? Was it unfair to think that they could have done something differently when he’d all but resigned himself to the king’s excuses as to why he hadn’t? Perhaps it was—Noctis was still too confused about that side of things to really begin to fathom what he was supposed to feel about the mess that had gotten him here in the first place.

There was only one clear thought in his mind, one that was growing increasingly distinct the longer he spent in the presence of his former friends: fair or not, he'd hoped for _more_ from them. They’d never failed to live up to his lofty expectations before; for nearly his entire life, they had been his heroes, infallible and fearless. Today, however, was a day for disappointment. It congealed in his throat, left a bitter taste on his lips, sat in his gut like a rock. It was everywhere, pervasive and tangible, yet it didn’t stay his tongue. Not this time.

“And what is it I’m supposed to be _adjusting_ to?” Noctis asked with a sarcastic shrug. “Is it the Citadel? Being a prince?”

_Learning that you’re a liar?_

Noctis decided he would keep that one to himself. The slight crease in Ignis’s forehead was enough indication of his frustration as it was.

“I was merely referring to the magnitude of the situation,” he replied carefully, his tone as cautious as it had been after Noctis’s injury when everyone had handled him like spun glass that would shatter at the slightest provocation.

He wasn’t that weak kid anymore. He could stand on his own two feet in the face of his personal daemons now, and he wasn’t about to let Ignis’s mind games stop him.

So, nodding slowly, Noctis suggested, “Maybe given the _magnitude of the situation_ , you could’ve answered your phone. That probably would’ve helped.”

“I would have, given the opportunity,” Ignis assured him as he straightened his glasses. Maybe he wasn’t the person Noctis thought he knew, but there was one thing that had never changed no matter what lies he told: when Ignis didn’t want to look at you, he always messed with his glasses.

He’d struck a nerve, then.

_Good._

“I guess you were too busy playing butler, huh?”

It was a low blow, and the skin around Ignis’s eyes tightened at the poorly veiled insult. _That_ was an expression he recognized; it never heralded anything good, either. Ignis didn’t come back at him the way he would have if they were in Hammerhead, though, not that that was any surprise. He wasn’t speaking to his _friend_ Ignis—he was speaking to his _chamberlain_ Ignis.

“I believe you’ll find I was preoccupied with preparing for your arrival,” he retorted evenly, a flash of something _hurt_ in his eyes belying his tone. “I’m certain you can forgive my lack of a response in this instance.”

“Yeah,” snorted Noctis, rolling his eyes, “in this instance.”

He hadn’t realized that the muted conversation in the other room had abruptly halted in response to his outburst, but as silence fell between them once again, he noticed how quiet it had gotten. Great, so now Gladio and Nyx were listening, too. Well, it wasn’t like they didn’t need to hear this; they were just as much a party to everything as Ignis.

As always, it was as though the latter could read Noctis’s mind. Most of the time, it unnerved him despite how used to it he’d grown over the years, but today he was glad that he didn’t need to put his thoughts into words himself. Ignis was supposed to be the guy who did everything for him, right? So, he could feel free to do the work.

“I recognize that this is difficult,” he began with a mildly exasperated sigh that seemed a little more characteristic of _his_ Ignis, “but the matter is settled. It is unwise to dwell on that which we cannot change.”

“ _You_ could’ve changed it.”

Ignis blinked, apparently thrown off. “I’m…sorry?”

What an odd choice of words. Noctis knew his apology wasn’t directed towards anything he believed it should be, but the irony of the situation had him huffing out a humorless chuckle all the same. “You could’ve said why you were in Hammerhead from the start, and you _didn’t_. You just kept it to yourself and pretended like everything would be okay when I found out.”

Maybe he was imagining things, but Noctis could have sworn Ignis winced at that reminder. That or it was a trick of the waning light, which honestly wouldn’t have surprised him. Ignis wasn’t much for showing that he was taken off guard, after all.

If that was what happened, though, he recovered remarkably quickly. Before Noctis could take much pride in his momentary victory, Ignis replied, “There was a great deal more involved in that decision than you know.”

“What’s to know? I think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what happened. That was the whole point of meeting the king, wasn’t it? So he could tell me everything?”

Ignis paused a moment then pointed out, “If His Majesty told you _everything_ , then you’ll understand that it was our duty not to inform you of your position.”

“Trust me, that one I get,” remarked Noctis with a glare. It was about as effective as ever, which was to say _not very_.

Ignis wasn’t the one who berated him, though. Instead, Gladio appeared in the doorway behind him with a flat expression and grumbled, “What Iggy’s tryin’ to say is to pull your head outta your ass. What we did, we did to protect you. You’re welcome.”

Noctis didn’t bother informing him that he definitely wasn’t thanking them for that—after all, that had been Nyx’s job, right? Watch over him and protect him from…whatever? The king had said as much earlier, just like he’d explained that he’d sent Ignis and Gladio to get to know him the way they would have had Noctis been raised at the Citadel. When he’d mentioned that, Noctis hadn’t thought anything of it beyond the wry realization that his plan had backfired: maybe they knew him, but the same couldn’t be said for the opposite. Now that they were here, now that Gladio was trying to make him swallow yet another lie, he didn’t have the patience for more patronizing excuses.

“Protect me from what?” he inquired harshly. “Some big, bad mage? Yeah, lot of help a couple of kids would be there.”

“Better than running our mouths to the wrong people,” Gladio shot back, his tone just as unforgiving.

Arguing with Gladio was usually an exercise in futility: he’d eventually get so frustrated that he’d either stop listening or storm off—both, if they were really upset at one another. When that happened, Noctis reached a point where he didn’t care enough to bother anymore; his go-to response in any disagreement was to simply roll his eyes and bite back anything that wasn’t a sarcastic retort. It wasn’t like they stayed mad at each other for too long anyway.

This time wasn’t like that. This time, he didn’t back down.

Instead, he summoned as much sarcasm as he could muster to rejoin, “Oh, _yeah_. Hammerhead’s a real tough place. You never know what kinds of bad guys you could run into there.”

“That’s pretty funny coming from _you_.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Gladio’s smirk wasn’t exactly cruel, but it came pretty close when he elaborated, “I can’t tell if you’re _trying_ to be stupid, or maybe you forgot: those _bad guys_ sure were hanging around Hammerhead when you wandered off by yourself.”

“Enough, Gladio,” Ignis interjected sharply, not that Noctis acknowledged it. That little spark of anger inside him burst into a firestorm at the insinuation.

“So, you’re saying that’s _my_ fault?”

“I’m sayin’ there’s plenty of shit out there that you needed protecting from,” grunted Gladio, clenching his fists and looking for all the world like he was trying to stop himself from giving Noctis a good shake. “Doesn’t matter if it was in Hammerhead or Insomnia. That was our job, and we did it.”

There it was, just as Noctis had expected. For a second, he couldn’t answer—being proven right didn’t feel as good as he’d thought it would. It wasn’t until the moment stretched overlong that he was able to speak, and even then, he couldn’t formulate the biting retort he wanted.

“Right,” he murmured, his voice brittle. “Just doing your job.”

“Deceiving you never sat well with either of us,” insisted Ignis, shooting a warning glare at Gladio when he opened his mouth to interrupt. “It was not our intent to upset you.”

Noctis rolled his eyes again, more to stave off a few poorly timed tears than communicate his contempt for that half-assed answer. “You could’ve fooled me. As far as spies go, you guys are pretty good.”

Now it was Gladio’s turn to scoff. “You can be mad at us all you want, but it doesn’t change anything. You’re stuck with us whether you like it or not.”

Sighing, Ignis translated, “Which is Gladio’s way of saying that we will always be here for you. Nothing about the change in venue has altered that.”

“Change in venue?” Noctis quirked an eyebrow. “It’s a little more than that, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” he admitted with a conciliatory gesture, “yet circumstances notwithstanding, our positions have not been altered whatsoever. We _are_ here for you, Noct.”

It was a pretty gutsy move given how Noctis was feeling, but Ignis strode forward regardless to lay a hand on his shoulder. When they were kids, that had always been enough to ground Noctis when he felt like he was about to float away on the wind; it had never failed to comfort him, that closeness with someone who was his friend by choice and not by necessity.

That thought left him cold, however, just like Ignis’s firm and familiar grip did. All those years spent together had been necessity after all—Gladio had said as much. Noctis wasn’t stupid: he knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. That didn’t ease the sting of his words or convince his mind that they weren’t true, though. They had both trained to be his retainers since they were little; even he belatedly recognized that the same could be said for him, having received an education from a member of the Kingsglaive rather than some stranger from the middle of nowhere. Their paths had been set before them, and whether they cared to admit it or not, Noctis knew that they wouldn’t have come to Hammerhead if not for their duty to him. Gladio’s admission of that, intentional or otherwise, was out in the open, lingering in the empty space of his room until they formed an invisible barrier between Noctis and his former friends. There was no comfort to be found from them the way he’d gleaned a bit from the king, unlikely as it had felt at the time. There was no warmth in his chest, nor did the lump in his throat shrink under Ignis’s sincere gaze. None of it made a difference or made him feel any less alone.

Which, conveniently enough, was exactly what he wanted right about now.

Clearing his throat enough to speak, Noctis gently yet pointedly shifted out of Ignis’s grasp and nodded towards the door with a cool, “Well, maybe you could _be here_ someplace else. I’ve gotta get ready for dinner.”

There was a moment where it seemed like Ignis might argue, but it was fleeting. Rather than comment on Noctis’s obvious avoidance tactic (because who was he kidding—there was no hiding it from Ignis, of all people), he merely nodded, that professionally detached expression shifting back into place. It wasn’t perfect, not like it had been before: Noctis could see a few chinks in his armor that weren’t usually there. Even so, it was a relief that he wasn’t going to force the issue or insist that there were things they still needed to discuss. This time, it seemed, he was just as prepared to let the matter lie as Noctis.

“Very well, Highness,” he replied, taking a step back and motioning towards the door. “We will wait for you in the sitting room. If you need anything at all, you need on—”

“I didn’t mean waiting out there,” huffed Noctis without letting him finish. “You guys can go. I’m good.”

That was a boldfaced lie, one that Ignis chose not to call him on. In fact, he wasn’t able to reply at all. Gladio took a step forward and gruffly argued, “No can do. We’re staying right here.”

“What, so you can babysit me?”

“Consider it ensuring that you settle in without any difficulty,” amended Ignis hastily, moving between the two of them. All that did was make Noctis frown deeper.

“Uh, it’s just an apartment. I don’t need supervision.”

Ignis opened his mouth, probably to feed him some crap about how it wasn’t supervision and that they just wanted to help, but Gladio cut him off before he got the chance. Noctis wasn’t sure if he was grateful for it or not. 

“You’re stuck with us. Better get used to it.”

That, at least, was the Gladio he knew: short and to the point.

That didn’t stop Noctis from retorting, “Well, I’m a prince, right? So, you have to do what I say, and right now I’m telling you to get out.”

Snorting, Gladio backed outside and called over his shoulder, “Yeah, well, it’s the king’s orders that we keep you company. He outranks you.”

So that was it. Noctis couldn’t necessarily say he was taken aback, although it hurt more than he would ever admit to acknowledge that King Regis had such little faith in him. The guards outside, Nyx waiting for him, Ignis and Gladio having orders to stick around when Noctis didn’t want them there—what did he think was going to happen? Even if Noctis tried to run, he had no idea where he was going in this city and didn’t have the money for a cab back to Hammerhead. (Hell, he didn’t even know if his money was good in Insomnia. That was something he would need to check on.) A glance at the windows told him that they didn’t open, so it wasn’t like he was in danger of jumping—not that he would anyway, but if he’d thought of it, then he had no doubt that the king would too.

He wasn’t going to, though, which meant he didn’t need three pairs of eyes watching his every move. He was an adult and a prince, and if he wanted to spend some time by himself, he’d damn well do it.

So, Noctis waited until Ignis and Gladio had retreated past the threshold before stomping forward and preparing to slam the door shut behind them. Infuriatingly enough, Gladio knew him too well and anticipated that he would do exactly that. As if to add insult to injury, he barked, “And keep the door open.”

_Uh, how about no._

In spite of Gladio’s exclamation from the sitting room, Noctis swung the door shut and clicked the lock into place. His Shield could do what he wanted, but something told Noctis he wasn’t about to break down a door in the Citadel. It wouldn’t exactly make the best impression on the king no matter how close he was with Gladio’s father.

Ignis must have appealed to him with a similar argument, because the heavy fist that had taken to pounding against the door paused after a moment, and Noctis could just barely make out soft voices on the other side. It did nothing to help the surging sense of injustice that squeezed his insides in its unyielding grasp. Why were they treating him like a kid? Why couldn’t they simply leave him alone for a while? It wasn’t like he was going anywhere; King Regis had made sure of that.

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Noctis turned to collapse onto his (admittedly incredible) bed with a huff of frustration. He’d left their meeting feeling at least a little better about the situation he’d found himself in, but now he wasn’t so certain anymore. If the king was going to be _this_ overprotective, then they needed to have a serious chat at dinner. Maybe today had been the worst birthday in the history of terrible birthdays, but it didn’t change the fact that Noctis had come of age. He was an adult, and as such, he didn’t have to tolerate a couple of glorified babysitters hovering over him at all hours of the day and night. Sure, they could help him figure things out around the Citadel; when he started doing whatever it was that his job entailed, he was positive that there would be no getting rid of them. Here, however, he wanted solitude. This was supposed to be his apartment— _his_ apartment—and he expected some privacy within its walls. What, did they expect him to leave every door open and allow his guards to watch him shower every morning?

_Hell. No. Not happening._

If royalty was going to be like that, then he would be happy to tell King Regis that he wanted no part of it. Uncle Cid’s apartment hadn’t been anywhere near the size of this one, nor did it come close in terms of extravagance, yet it would take a hell of a lot more than this for him to give up on his privacy. Unerringly devoted ears and the sound of hushed voices outside the door? Unacceptable.

Sighing, Noctis shoved himself off the bed and paced towards the window in a restless attempt to put some distance between him and his unfortunate company. His irritation couldn’t bring him to deny the fact that it _was_ a nice room, albeit with way more furniture than he’d ever use, and the view was absolutely breathtaking. They were so high up that one glance confirmed his earlier assumption had been right: he could see the entire Crown City from here, right over the tops of the buildings to where the sun was beginning to dip behind the other side of the wall with the coming of evening. The angle of the light painted the city in various hues of orange and red, perfectly matching the sands of Hammerhead he knew existed just beyond his sight.

A pang of longing struck him at that comparison, stealing the breath from his lungs as he scratched around the fresh bandage the king had wrapped around his hand. What were Uncle Cid and Cindy doing right now? Had they gotten dinner yet, or were they pulling a late one in the garage? Had Prompto stuck around to help after he left, and if he did, had they told him where Noctis was really going? Somehow, he doubted that, but he supposed he wasn’t going to find out anytime soon. The idea of texting Prompto made his stomach churn. As much as he would have liked to check in with someone familiar who hadn’t lied to him all this time, the desire to be alone overshadowed everything else like the clouds that passed over the sky, turning the city a pale and sickly shade of green.

_…Wait._

Frowning, Noctis forced his mind away from thoughts of home and squinted through the glass. There… _weren’t_ any clouds. The sky was just as clear as it had been a second ago, with the sun settled comfortably at the spot where the wall met the horizon, yet everything was different. It was eerie the way shadows began to stretch across the landscape, covering everything in a strange aura that set Noctis on edge. What made it worse was that the city below seemed to have stopped—the people, the traffic, even the huge monitors mounted on the sides of the buildings were all static, unchanging as the seconds ticked past.

Was he seeing things? Had he fallen asleep and was dreaming that he’d gotten up to look out the window? Yeah, that had to be it. There was no other explanation for how… _dead_ Insomnia looked when it had been bursting with life no more than a heartbeat ago.

It wasn’t the most compelling argument, but Noctis tried to make himself believe it regardless. After all, it wasn’t possible for an entire city to just freeze like that.

Was it?

His brittle reassurances fell flat when he turned away from the window to find that his room was no different from the sight outside his window. Where the warm orange glow of the lamp on his bedside table had illuminated the space when he walked in, it had been snuffed out by that same shade of green, and an awkward stillness pervaded the air until even drawing breath felt unnatural.

Something wasn’t right. Maybe he was dreaming or maybe he wasn’t, but all of a sudden, being alone didn’t seem like such an appealing prospect anymore. As much as he wanted to bask in his anger at Ignis and Gladio for as long as possible, his pride could wait until he figured out what the hell was going on here. They’d probably laugh at him and say that he was simply imagining things—well, Gladio would. If Ignis channeled anything of his former friend, then he would come up with a more courteous way of saying that there was nothing to be afraid of. Either way, he wasn’t sticking around to see what happened. This wasn’t like those frequent occasions where he went crying to Uncle Cid about his nightmares, and Noctis refused to be ashamed of his rushed gait when he crossed the bedroom and yanked open the door.

“Hey, are you guys seeing…”

His sentence died on his lips, although he doubted anyone would have heard it anyway. The sitting room was identical to the tableau he’d witnessed in the city, only it was far more disturbing up close. Ignis and Nyx were seated in armchairs, clearly having been holding a conversation before whatever it was froze them in place, while Gladio stood staring out the window at the same sunset Noctis had been watching moments earlier. None of them registered his presence; none of them even _breathed_.

“Guys?” he called uncertainly, frowning when he received no answer. For a second, that was all he could do; it felt like his feet were cemented to the floor even as the voice in the back of his head whispered for him to move. It was an itch, a jabbing needle, a desperate urge for him to do _something_ —but not to help. No, it wasn’t pushing him to tap Ignis’s shoulder or smack Gladio in the back of the head. It had nothing to do with them at all.

Blinking away the sudden dizziness that gripped him, Noctis shook his head and took a tentative step forward—then another—another, until he was halfway to the door. If everything else was frozen in time, then the guards outside must be as well. He could get past them, he could make it to the elevator, he could…he could…

Why would he do that? He needed to stay and help Ignis, Gladio, and Nyx. Didn’t he?

An overwhelming sense of vertigo hit him as he forced himself to a halt, glancing over his shoulder at where his retainers hadn’t budged an inch. They were supposed to be watching him; if they came to and he wasn’t here, then there would be hell to pay.

_Why do you care?_ the voice in his head sneered. _Don’t they deserve it? Isn’t that a fair price for lying to you all this time?_

Well, it had a point there. His arguments clearly hadn’t gotten through to them, not if they were still convinced that  they were doing the right thing. He could just leave them here to explain how they’d lost him—the king could decide what to do with them from there.

But that wasn’t right. Gladio had one point, grudging as Noctis was to admit it: they _had_ watched his back regardless of their reasons for doing so. Whether it was their job or not, they had done everything in their power to protect him, in body as well as in spirit. He didn’t know what kind of person he would have become if it weren’t for them; imagining his life had they never come to Hammerhead was like attempting to see the world without sunlight. Their lies hurt—there was no denying that—but he treasured those memories of their shared childhood despite how horribly they’d been tainted by dishonesty and duty.

Noctis hadn’t realized he’d begun to turn until that voice stopped him once more, whispering enticingly, _But those children are dead. Those memories aren’t real. Everything you knew and loved in them is gone, replaced with people who can never understand you._

That much was true, he supposed. As Noctis looked over at Ignis and Gladio, even at Nyx, he couldn’t claim to know who they were anymore. Their faces were familiar, but what lay behind them was a mystery to him. He was standing in a room full of strangers, looking for friends where there weren’t any.

_You have no friends._

He had no friends.

_You are alone._

He was alone. Nothing he could do would change that.

Noctis was reaching for the doorknob before he was aware of it, a buzzing in his ears that drowned out everything else. All he could hear was that voice, assuring him that this was the right thing and that he would be better off without them—that _they_ would be better off without _him_.

And Noctis had no argument for that. He couldn’t counter that which he already knew to be true, so he didn’t bother trying. All he could do was stagger out into the corridor, his feet clumsy and uncooperative beneath him. The guards, like his former friends, were statues on either side of the hallway. They paid him no mind, nor did he acknowledge their existence beyond a fleeting and insubstantial curiosity. Instead, his attention was drawn past where they stood as silent sentinels, intimidating and altogether useless.

Because he _wasn’t_ alone.

“Umbra?”

Noctis’s voice was distant to his own ears, as though he was hearing himself from the other end of the corridor or a tunnel or the universe as a whole. For a moment, he wasn’t sure that he’d spoken at all; the only things that seemed real to him were the itching of his palms and the dog that stared at him from a few feet away. In the odd greenish glow that emanated from nothing and everything all at once, it didn’t _look_ entirely like Umbra: his fur was too dark, and his amber eyes appeared almost black in the looming shadows. Regardless, that probing voice told him that they were one and the same, and Noctis couldn’t find the will to argue with it. A familiar face was comforting, even if it was just a dog.

Any questions of how Umbra had gotten here—not just to Insomnia, but into the upper levels of the heavily guarded Citadel—evaporated as soon as they occurred to him. Now wasn’t the time to worry about that, not when he had somewhere to be.

And Umbra would take him there.

That’s why he was here: he would guide Noctis to where he belonged better than any chamberlain or Shield ever could.

In that instant, his consciousness narrowed to this one corridor, obliterating everything else as though the world itself had never existed. To his dwindling awareness, all that remained was Umbra. His eyes pierced Noctis’s very soul, inviting him forward to a place he couldn’t fathom but knew he wanted to go. They were running late, so very late— _twenty years too late_ …

Umbra didn’t wait for Noctis to catch up as he darted around the corner and vanished into the open elevator, which left him with no other choice but to follow suit. It didn’t strike him as odd that there was a key in the panel or that the lift started moving without him having to activate it—all that mattered was that they were getting there, and he wouldn’t have to turn back.

It would be better there. He wouldn’t have to worry about anything _there_.

If he followed Umbra, he’d find a place where there were no lies or deceit or pain—he was certain of it, although he wasn’t sure how. That didn’t concern him, though: nothing was more important than moving forward, wherever that might take him.

When the doors slid open and Umbra leapt out, Noctis followed without question. It took a few moments that felt like a thousand lifetimes for him to realize that this corridor didn’t lead to the outside—it was taking him further into the depths of the Citadel. A niggling sensation that had nothing to do with the voice in his head or his sweating palms told him that this was familiar, that he had been here before even if he couldn’t remember when or why. The wallpaper, the lights, the marble floor… This path was etched into his heart, his soul, every fiber of his being until he didn’t need Umbra to guide him through the shadows anymore. Destiny or fate or whatever it was did that for him. It communicated to him without words, but Noctis heard them regardless.

Turn right.

The fourth left.

Down the hall.

The doors to the room ahead were open. It was waiting to welcome him home.

Noctis felt like he was wandering into a dream when he crossed the threshold, hardly noticing that Umbra remained behind as he stepped between the rows of polished armaments. Each one had a voice of its own, calling out to him and beckoning him forth. Their magic wrapped around his heart and squeezed the air from his lungs, and it was almost as if his feet were moving of their own accord as he took a few steps forward.

Then stopped, blinking hard. This… This wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He should be getting ready for dinner, preparing to see his—

That chorus of ancient voices spoke again, sweeping away his concerns and gently caressing his mind with whispered reassurances. They summoned him, speaking unintelligible words of comfort and peace. He was right where he belonged, they told him, and this was where he was meant to stay. Apartments and kings, friends that acted more like enemies—he did not need them. He did not belong there.

He belonged here.

Even as his breath caught in his throat with some indescribable emotion, his head felt clearer than it had in months. This was right. This was okay. Everything was going to be all right now.

One voice in particular rose above the rest to agree, and Noctis found himself standing in front of a rack of weapons with no memory of how he got there. He didn’t need to wonder which one kept calling to him, which one had _been_ calling to him ever since he’d entered Insomnia.

It was the strangest sword he’d ever seen: a glaive by every definition, yet the hilt was sculpted into an engine the likes of which _he_ would have drooled over. Noctis racked his brains to think of who, but it was a futile attempt that he gave up within seconds. The memory he halfheartedly sought had been wiped away with every other unimportant thought in his head. All that endured was the vague yet insistent conviction that _this was his_ — _it was meant for him._

And it had been waiting a long time. Noctis could sense its loneliness, its desire for a companion here in the darkness of approaching night.

That hole in his chest, the one he hadn’t been able to fill, ached with the same sort of longing. They were one, him and this sword. Together, they would be complete.

Noctis reached out a trembling hand and lifted the glaive from its perch, taking a deep and refreshing breath at the cool metal in his grasp. It soothed the ache, the itch, the _burn_ —it was what he’d needed, what he’d wanted—

His left hand hadn’t been cured yet. It cried out, yearning for attention, desperately desiring a reprieve—

He needed it. He needed it. He needed it he needed it he needed it heneededitheneededitheneededitheneededit—

Palm closing around the tip of the blade, he squeezed as hard as he could and watched with vacant satisfaction as the bandage changed from stark white to vibrant red—

A momentary sting.

A drop of royal blood.

Then the shadows came.


	22. Loss

“It feels like an age since I’ve seen you in such high spirits,” remarked Clarus with a broad smile. Regis briefly turned from the dining room window to offer one in response.

“It feels like an age since I _have_ been,” he mused, glancing back at the setting sun with an involuntary pang of trepidation. Perhaps that was what made him continue in a low murmur, “I merely pray that it is not premature.”

His Shield’s footsteps approached behind him, and Clarus appeared a moment later at his side. “Noctis is well guarded. Drautos assures me that he has stationed only his best outside his apartment, and we both know that he is protected within. You needn’t concern yourself.”

Regis hummed, although Clarus’s heartfelt reassurances did little to assuage the gnawing fear in the pit of his stomach as the sun sank further below the edge of the distant wall. For two decades, he had lived with this vague sense of terror that at any moment, the last member of his family would be snatched from his grasp like all the rest. It felt as if he had spent every waking moment living a half-life, where part of him was focused on his duties while the other obsessed over whether Noctis was safe. Hundreds of photographs and videos that still made him smile did not change that, especially when the looming threat of his son’s coming of age hung heavy on his mind of late. Now that Noctis was here, what was he to do? Did he merely shrug off twenty years of a terrible habit and convince himself that all would be well now that they were back under the same sizable roof? It seemed too good to be true, too ideal to be reality. At every turn, something had gone wrong—the birth of their son had been marred by a dreadful curse, and his safety in exile had been shattered by spies of the enemy. Indeed, there were times when Regis thought that the only redeeming quality of the endeavor was that Noctis was returning to a better Insomnia than the one he had left. For whatever reason, their dealings with the empire had been fewer and further between in recent years; skirmishes were a thing of the past, and envoys from Aldercapt’s territory had been conspicuously silent.

Things were looking up. Improvement was finally on the horizon. Warmth had returned to his chest when these last two decades had seen naught but heartache and suffering.

Then why did it feel as though they were waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop?

“Shall I imitate the queen and insist that you are thinking too much?”

Regis smirked, his Shield’s intercession dragging him from his dark thoughts. “It would not be the first time.”

“No,” replied Clarus, his tone too innocent to be serious, “yet you consistently force my hand.”

“Do I?”

“Quite.”

“My apologies,” chuckled Regis with a shake of his head. “I was unaware that my insecurities were such a burden on you.”

Nodding, Clarus observed, “They are. How is a Shield to protect his king from his own thoughts?”

That _was_ quite the quandary. Regis wished that he had an answer to such a question, but it was impossible to provide one when he was still attempting to discern it himself, albeit in a different context. How was a king to protect his son when he was inhibited so thoroughly by his own oftentimes irrational reservations? There had been so many occasions over the years where he needed to act but froze, unable to think or move or breathe for fear that he would make a situation worse than it already was—particularly with regards to Noctis. He had overcome those obstacles; it was necessary as king. That did not mean that he didn’t suffer those moments of weakness in the dark of the night when the universe seemed keen on reminding him that not all would go as he planned.

No, those contemptuous voices in his mind were not of a sort that Clarus could guard him from. They were insubstantial outside his own head, nothing more than shadows that should have dissipated in the light of his son’s return.

_My son…_

The thought of Noctis residing in the Citadel brought a smile to Regis’s lips, and he could tell from the knowing look on Clarus’s face that he must have appeared rather like a foolish old man to his closest friend. He refused to be ashamed, however. In spite of his residual unease, there was nothing more comforting than the knowledge that Noctis was home and would remain so for the foreseeable future. If he was being honest, Regis was loath to let him set foot outside the palace ever again much less leave his sight for even a moment. The minor sacrifice of sending him off to investigate his chambers had been nearly as difficult as watching Cor take him from Insomnia to begin with.

Regardless of his own feelings on the matter, it had been necessary to allow his son that small bit of space. After all, Regis was no fool: he entertained no delusions that they were more than strangers at this juncture. Videos and stories could only tell him so much, and while he had gone out of his way to learn the objective facts about Noctis, there was a great deal more that he did not know. Regis had memorized his favorite foods—they were laid out on the table behind him, awaiting Noctis’s arrival—yet he was blind to _why_ he liked them; he knew his son’s favorite pastime, but he couldn’t fathom what captivated him enough to devote so many hours to studying marine life, of all things. Those facets of his personality could only be discovered through experience, through discussions and time and a willingness to learn about one another.

Would Noctis grant him that opportunity? After everything that had happened, Regis could not be sure, nor could he say with complete certainty that he deserved it.

What he did believe with his whole heart was that Noctis had grown into an unfailingly kind and compassionate young man, just as the former Oracle had foretold all those years ago. Thus, it was difficult for Regis to convince himself that Noctis would be incapable of allowing him a chance to prove his affection and devotion, however reluctant he had acted when they met before. As disappointing as that sight had left him, Regis could not blame his son for his caution. In his eyes, his father had had nothing to do with him for two decades; he considered a person who should have been a stranger as more of a parent than his own. Regis would never begrudge Cid that honor, not when he had given up twenty years of his life to protect a child that bore no relation to him, but there was no denying that the sentiment still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

That would change, though. Regis was determined to ensure that. Be it weeks, months, or as many years as they had been apart, he would see to it that his son could trust him again. Perhaps they would never find the love that would have connected them had fate been on their side, but he would do everything in his power to work towards that end nonetheless.

His thoughts must have shown on his face as he watched the sun dip lower behind the wall, because Clarus shook his head suddenly and murmured, “It is fortunate that you have no other appointments today.”

Quirking an eyebrow at the non-sequitur, Regis inquired, “Why do you say that?”

“You have not been so distracted since Noctis was born.”

It was a fair assessment, one that Regis could hardly deny. What was today if not a rebirth of all that he had hoped for?

“I suppose that is an accurate claim,” he murmured with a dry chuckle, “although I daresay Noctis would be averse to such a description.”

“I shall refrain from mentioning it, then.”

“That would be greatly appreciated. I do not wish to give him more reason to be angry with me.”

Clarus scoffed at that, exactly as Regis predicted he would. “I doubt that anger will be his foremost reaction.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, “yet it would be well within his rights. I fear that he is too good to hold a grudge when he knows that my decision was made in the hopes of keeping him healthy and whole.”

“But not happy,” Clarus guessed, and correctly at that.

Regis nodded his head, a frown furrowing his brows. “But not happy,” he echoed quietly.

“With any luck, his birthday presents will improve his opinion on matters,” teased Clarus, ignoring the heaviness in his tone.  

A laugh bubbled up from Regis’s chest at the reminder, followed by a sigh as he countered, “It would behoove me not to offer those to him so soon. I would like to avoid the appearance of purchasing his affection if at all possible.”

“You think the car is too much, then?” mused Clarus wryly, not so subtly alluding to the sentiment he’d been voicing for a few months at least.

“Hardly,” argued Regis with an equally mocking smirk. His Shield was unaffected by it.

“It would _also_ behoove you, then, to remember that he cannot drive.”

“Yes, Ignis informed me of that.”

“I do not suppose you have organized a method of remedying the matter?”

Shrugging a shoulder, Regis casually replied, “What better teacher than Noctis’s own chamberlain? I trust Ignis’s judgment and ability more than many of my own retainers, which is rather an impressive feat considering his age.”

“I see,” chuckled Clarus. “Has Ignis been made aware of this arrangement?”

“He will doubtless rise to the occasion.”

“No, then.”

“Not in so many words. He has always been intelligent, though. I would be surprised indeed if he has not already considered it. After all,” Regis added with a mischievous grin, “the alternative would be enlisting Gladiolus’s assistance.”

Clarus came dangerously close to rolling his eyes as he muttered, “I was under the impression that the last two decades were devoted to _not_ placing the prince in undue peril.”

As little as Regis cared to joke about such things, he couldn’t help but chuckle at the memory of his Shield’s endeavors to teach his own son how to drive. It was not that Gladiolus was a poor driver—far from it, although he generally preferred to allow Ignis the pleasure of doing so. Regardless, there was no arguing that it had been difficult for Clarus when he realized that his son hadn’t the patience for the task. Gladiolus was a man of action, just as his father had been when they were younger. Sitting still to learn all the buttons and gears and levers? Suffice it to say that it was trying enough for a normal pupil without the addition of Gladiolus’s personality.

Time had sanded down the edges of Clarus’s restive nature, however, and Regis believed it was only a matter of a few years before the same happened to his successor. In the meantime, it would be better that Ignis instructed Noctis with regards to vehicular operation rather than his hotheaded, impatient Shield. Regis had managed to protect his child from a great many things over the years, but it would be counterproductive to take such action with Gladiolus.

The young Shield would already have his work cut out for him, after all. A car may have been a rather extravagant gift, but it was not the only one Regis would offer Noctis one day soon. Now that he had returned to the Citadel, he would need to learn the finer points of swordsmanship that Gladiolus had not been able to teach him with the limited resources available to him in Hammerhead. It was with that thought in mind that Regis had instructed the royal blacksmiths to craft a blade he felt would be fitting for Noctis: a sword of finest quality with a hilt that would remind him of his heritage. When they had brought him their first incarnation of what Clarus had jokingly dubbed the _engine blade_ , Regis had wondered if perhaps he made a mistake—the finished product was far bulkier than he had imagined when the idea occurred to him. With a few modifications, though, it had become something he hoped his son would wield with pride.

Even if he had already prepared himself for the fact that Noctis would undoubtedly find the car a great deal more impressive.

Despite the lightheartedness of their conversation, the mention of Noctis’s safety had Regis glancing back out the window at the waning light. Yes, he had done more than any parent could boast in ensuring that his son lived to see the day after his twentieth birthday—of that, he was more than certain. He had given up everything, even to the point of sacrificing the bond he’d hoped to cultivate with the person he was endeavoring to protect. It was all worth it; he could not regret his actions in the slightest. Every second of anguish and instance of loneliness meant little when he had gotten to see his child grown and walking about.

And that bond, that connection between father and son? It had not been severed entirely: Regis had felt it stretching between them by the time Noctis departed. It had grown frail and brittle, pulled taut to the point where it might break should it have to endure any more pressure, but it was there. The few smiles he had managed to coax out of Noctis had all but assured that. Given time, perhaps they could eradicate the atrophy altogether and strengthen that connection. If they were quite fortunate, then they would have all the time in the world, after all.

Regis had held onto that hope for twenty years, and he did not relinquish his grasp on it now as he watched the sun dip beneath the top of the wall and vanish from sight.

In that instant, the remaining tension that had weighed heavily on his shoulders evaporated, leaving him feeling lighter than he had in years. They had made it: Noctis was safely sequestered in his quarters, loyal eyes ensuring that he did not come to harm, and the curse had officially expired.

They had made it. Ardyn had lost.

They were _free_.

That was what Regis wanted to believe, in any case. The moment the sun’s warm glow disappeared, the doors to the dining room burst open to admit Drautos, his expression grim. It was, of course, difficult to discern whether that was a cause for concern or merely his natural demeanor. Considering the situation, however, Regis was inclined to believe the former.

And he was correct.

“The prince is missing,” Drautos announced without preamble. He did not even pause to observe the formalities that his station dictated, for which Regis found himself immensely grateful. In his immediate panic, he cared not a whit for anything that might waste precious time.

“What do you mean, he is _missing_?” he demanded, taking a few steps towards his captain.

The latter did not flinch at his harsh tone, nor did he hesitate to explain, “Ulric reported in five minutes ago. He was in his room one second, and now they can’t find him.”

Five minutes ago—before the sun set.

For as quickly as relief had filled him, it transformed into dread. How long had Noctis been gone? Why were they only realizing it now? There was no other way out of his chambers besides the main entrance and an emergency corridor hidden in the theater room Regis had installed for him—it was not possible that he could have left without being seen, especially not from his bedroom.

Not without _help_.

“I want the Citadel locked down,” ordered Regis, already in motion with Clarus and Drautos hot on his heels. “Bar the gates—no one enters, and no one leaves until he is found. Place the Glaive on high alert. We may well have an unexpected guest on the grounds.”

“Do you believe such action is wise?” inquired Clarus skeptically. “If Ardyn _is_ inside the Citadel, there may be no way to contain him.”

That much was an inevitability at this point, although Regis was loath to admit it. Ardyn had always come and gone as he pleased, whether it was in the days of his father’s reign or the morning of Noctis’s christening. There was no stopping him, just as there was no keeping him from leaving if he so desired. They had, after all, learned that lesson the difficult way.

That was why Regis did not deign to answer as he led them towards the elevator bank and jabbed the call button with every ounce of frustration contained within him. No, they could not do anything about Ardyn if he was here, which meant they had to take precautions in the event that he was using someone else. It was no secret that the empire employed spies, nor was Regis naïve enough to believe that Ardyn had not placed a few of his own within the borders of Insomnia. He would not stand down in the face of that adversity, however; he would not allow Ardyn to believe that his path to domination would be so simple. Let him laugh at their futile attempts to stave off his vengeance—Regis would welcome the challenge. If vexing the mage was all that they could accomplish, then he would die ensuring that Ardyn wished he’d never heard the Lucis Caelum name.

He would die as one final nuisance in Ardyn’s path to Noctis.

It was through the haze of Regis’s thoughts and silent curses at the elevator’s delayed arrival that he heard Clarus distantly ordering, “Have all available Glaives sweep the Citadel. Alert Cor, as well.”

“Already done,” replied Drautos as though the idea that he would have neglected his duty irritated him. It was in moments like these that Regis remembered why it was he had allowed him to remain his captain for so long.

If Clarus took offense to his tone, he said not a word. Rather, his resolve was unfaltering as he continued, “See to it that the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive search each floor thoroughly. That will be the best course of action if we are to locate the prince.”

“We have no need to search, Clarus,” Regis interrupted soberly when the elevator doors finally slid open to admit them. Stepping inside with his Shield, he turned back to Drautos and directed him, “Send Cor to the southeast armory with anyone he can muster. If the mage is there, he is _not_ to engage, but they must intercept Noctis at all costs.”

Inclining his head in belated deference, Drautos muttered a quick, “I’ll see it done,” before tapping his earpiece and issuing a few rapid orders as he stalked down the corridor.

Regis stared after him until the elevator doors closed, unable to select the floor he dreaded visiting for the trembling in his fingers. To his credit, Clarus had been trained for such circumstances: when Regis was unable to act in light of his own panic, his Shield was there to ensure that the world continued spinning. He was, in all things, Regis’s own mind and hand. As such, he reached around him to tap the directory button, and the elevator began its slow descent.

It was not often that Regis would say he saw evil in every corner, yet in that moment, it seemed to smother him. Everything from the slowly declining numbers on the display to the glowing red circle on the panel emitted an otherworldly and sinister aura, the likes of which he had not witnessed in twenty years. He knew that it was his imagination, that he was seeing what his emotions showed him rather than what reality dictated to be true, but it felt as though there were eyes glaring down at him from the fluorescent lights above their heads, simply waiting for the chance to strike. They would not, however, not until his heart was shattered and his dreams reduced to ashes.

“We _will_ make it in time.”

Clarus’s voice nearly made Regis jump, and he shot his Shield a sidelong glance to find him staring with a stubborn sort of determination. If not for the severity of the situation, Regis would have smiled at the youthful resolve of his features; it had waned in the decades that had passed since either of them could be described as such. The fire in his gaze had never wavered, although its intensity had been dampened by the wisdom of age. Now, however, Regis would have thought he was looking into Gladiolus’s eyes rather than those of his father, so great was his obvious devotion to comforting his king.

It would have worked if it weren’t for the fact that he knew not what they would find when they reached the armory. All he could do was suspect the worst.

“You cannot say that for certain, Clarus,” Regis murmured, turning back to the glowing numbers that would hopefully bring him to his son before it was too late.

His Shield was apparently prepared to brook no argument, because he did not waste a moment in countering, “Nor can you say that the opposite is true. We had warning.”

“The sun has set.”

“Do you believe that to be the deciding factor?”

“I believe it to be indicative of what we will doubtless find,” he burst out angrily. The glower he leveled at Clarus was venomous as he added, “He disappeared before the sun set. You know the extent of the curse as well as I.”

Nodding, Clarus retorted, “I do, which is why I am urging you not to give up when we do not yet know for sure that Noctis has indeed triggered the spell.”

Regis scoffed. “Where else would he have gone?”

“You did not see his face when Gladiolus accompanied him to his quarters,” insisted his Shield with something that would have been a grimace on someone with less control over their expressions. His aborted disappointment notwithstanding, he continued firmly, “It may very well be that he sought time to himself and slipped out of the apartment without their knowledge.”

“You know as well as I that that is not possible.”

“Anything is possible, but I will admit that it is rather improbable.”

Huffing a dark, humorless chuckle, Regis shook his head and implored his Shield, “Do not patronize me with hope when there is none.”

“I was given to believe that it is never too late to keep hope alive,” murmured Clarus, his gaze as pointed as his tone.

For a few agonizing seconds, Regis could not speak. His Shield had used some rather unorthodox methods of dragging him from the prison of his thoughts in the past; unless in jest, he had never dared to use Aulea’s own words against him.

They were as clear in Regis’s memory as though he’d heard them only yesterday, and in that instant, he was transported back nearly twenty years to a different emergency, a different life in danger of being lost. He could still recall how cold her hands had felt as they weakly clutched his own, how brittle her smile had seemed when it was obvious that she was doing everything in her power to remain strong for his sake. And wasn’t that the irony of the situation: until the very end, Aulea’s thoughts had been for _him_ , for seeing him soldier through the difficult trials they faced and emerge on the other side to greet their son when they returned home. In those days, he had entertained little hope—how could he when he was about to lose the last precious light in his life? With Noctis gone, his arms had ached with emptiness and longing; with Aulea gone, he had been certain his sanity would not endure.

Then, as she was wont to do, Aulea had rolled her eyes at him in that most patient and affectionate manner and murmured, “It is never too late to keep hope alive.”

“How can I do that, my love,” he’d whispered, blinking back tears of weakness that had no place in her presence, “when you are taking the last bit of myself with you?”

“By remembering that the other half will return,” she’d comforted him. What a strange sensation, to be doomed to live yet receive such solace from the expiring soul. “If I cannot be here to greet our son, you will have to do it for me.”

Promising her— _swearing_ to her—that he would do so did not ease the pain of her passing, nor did it smooth out the jagged edges of the broken heart she’d left behind but a few days later. It had, however, given him something to live for. Where he had been determined to press on and see the day when Noctis returned home regardless, it was the knowledge that Aulea was counting on him to take both their places at their son’s side in the future that stayed the steady loss of his sanity.

Not that there were never moments where he felt it beginning to slip away in spite of his every desperate attempt to cling onto it, of course. As the elevator doors opened and deposited them in the corridor that potentially led to this final doom, every moment where he had wavered and nearly fallen came flooding back to him.

How many times had he walked this path in his dreams? How many times had he woken with the shadows of terror and loneliness imprinted on the inside of his eyelids and tattooed to the muscle that beat within his chest? How many nights had his mind brought him here, always to witness the same tragedy with unchanging resiliency: Noctis, pinned to the floor by the sword Regis had commissioned for his return a mere six months prior.

What a fool he had been to bring Noctis home early, he realized as he hastened towards the armory with nary a glance at his Shield. To do so had felt right a few hours ago, yet now his mistake was laid out before him so that he could bask in its enormity. When Ulric had reported Noctis’s injury that morning, when he had relayed the strangeness of his behavior and seeming lack of memory in the aftermath, Regis had not paused to think. He had not considered anything beyond the vague hysteria he felt, for there was nothing he could do from Insomnia if the nature of the curse were to strip Noctis’s very will from him. It had seemed a simple matter when he was small and incapable of movement on his own: if they sent him away from the Citadel, away from the very objects that were destined to trigger this curse, then he had assumed Noctis would be safe. After all, a grown man would hardly be likely to happen across a sword in such an unlikely place.

But this spell clearly did not follow the laws of reason. It was cast in a fit of rage, of vengeance, of irrational and deplorable loathing so intense that none of this should have come as a surprise to anyone. If it was the case, then, that Noctis’s mind might abandon him in order to see this fate achieved, there was no way that Regis could leave him in Hammerhead with merely an aging mechanic and sole Glaive to protect him.

How did you protect someone from what was festering within?

So, it was with the full conviction that he was doing the right thing that he had ordered his most trusted Glaive to bring his son home prematurely; it was with the utmost confidence that he had convinced himself that Noctis would be safer confined to his quarters with every eye in the Citadel trained on him if necessary.

Instead he had brought his son to the place where his fate would be decided, and that desperate, deadly modicum of hope Clarus had reminded him of merely prayed to any deity that might be listening that the course he had chosen would not end the way he feared it already had.

That did not slow his steps or his breathing or the uncontrollable hammering of his heart as he practically flew down the corridor and turned towards the armory with Clarus following close behind. If something had happened already, he would have felt it, would he not? It would have been like the moment he knew Aulea had left this world for good: there would be some sort of earth-shattering, earsplitting crash as the universe split in two, and he would fall through the crack into everlasting darkness.

It was only his stomach that dropped so far, as it turned out.

When they rounded the corner and came within view of the armory, Regis nearly tripped over himself at the sight that greeted them. Cor had indeed arrived before them, and he was not alone. Both of his son’s retainers were present, as was Ulric; they flanked the marshal, but only the latter was armed. Regis realized why the moment he shoved past them and stopped dead in his tracks.

There _was_ someone here, and it was not Noctis.

“You know,” mused Ardyn, standing just inside the doorway as though he had a right to be there, “I recall predicting that the prince would grow into as fine a young man as his father before him, and lo! It appears that I was correct. Don’t you agree, Your Majesty?”

Quite unperturbed by the hostile glares he was receiving, he turned to them with a predatory leer. It was not the malice of his expression that made Regis’s breath freeze in his lungs, however, nor the poorly concealed glee he clearly felt. No, it was something simultaneously greater and more meaningless than that: the Ring of the Lucii was held loosely between Ardyn’s thumb and forefinger, and his eyes fixated not on the mage so much as the trinket. How had he managed to abscond with that precious heirloom? In the short text message Regis had received from Cid earlier that day, his friend had claimed that he gave Noctis the letter _and_ the ring.

Which could only mean…

“Where is my son?” demanded Regis, stepping forward without a care for his own safety. Out of the corner of his eye, he distantly registered that Clarus had moved closer to the weapons lining the walls; none of them were his own, yet they would suffice in a pinch nevertheless.

If Ardyn was at all bothered by the motion, he offered no indication. Instead, he affected a concerned yet scolding expression and tutted, “Why, _don’t_ tell me you’ve lost him! Oh, the poor boy, so neglected by those who claim to have his best interests at heart.”

“You _will_ tell me where he is,” Regis interjected before they could tread further down that dark road. He was already well aware that he had failed in that regard, but he would not reflect on his mistakes with this vile monster present.

“If that is what you wish, then you need look no further. He has…what is the phrase? Found a place where he _belongs_.”

The mage’s chuckle echoed eerily through the chamber, and if it were not for the uselessness of the venture, he would have snatched the nearest weapon to run Ardyn through. His fingers were itching restlessly, urging him to act, yet he still motioned for their audience to stand down when he noticed Ignis inching forward beside him. That, if anything, only appeared to increase Ardyn’s amusement.

“I must admit, you led me on a merry chase,” he chortled with an air more appropriate between friends than the bitter enemies that they were. Regis gritted his teeth as he continued, “To send the prince away from the Citadel? Of all the ways to protect him, I never would have suspected you to take _that_ route. If sacrifice is indeed the mark of a true monarch, then you outdo yourself day by day, Your Majesty.”

There was no hiding how Regis’s face twisted in disgust, how he clenched his fists in one final attempt to stem the flow of violence that desperately wished to be set free. In his frustration, in the agony of his denial, he rejoined, “I suppose that such feelings, as with so many others, would be beyond your comprehension.”

Pressing a hand to his chest in an imitation of offense—the hand that still held the ring, Regis noted—Ardyn exclaimed, “Perish the thought! I’ll have you know that I am quite capable of understanding human emotion. After all, you’ve no idea how much the notion that you believed you could escape me hurt. My feelings, at least,” he added, his heretofore carefree tone shifting lower and adopting a darker quality more characteristic of the person Regis knew.

“No monster could claim to have feelings,” he spat, narrowing his eyes when Ardyn laughed with cold conviction.

“Your Majesty is so quick to pass judgment. Perhaps you should remember that the true monster is he who cast the first stone.”

That was it—the final straw, the spark that sent Regis’s temper bursting into flames. Almost before he realized what he was doing, he had grabbed one of the innumerable swords from its rack and charged towards Ardyn, forcing every ounce of his anger and hatred and heartbreak into the gesture.

It was not enough. It was never enough.

Naught but the resounding echo of that hideous laughter remained by the time he turned to pierce it with his weapon, and Regis recklessly swung the sword in a wide arc as if he could somehow summon Ardyn back to see what judgment really looked like. What he would not have given to be able to drag that cretin from whatever realm he had disappeared to and show him what truly marked Regis as the rightful monarch of Lucis.

That, however, was beyond his skill. If it weren’t, then the conflict between them would have been settled long ago.

It took a few seconds that could have been decades before Regis returned to his senses enough to remind himself that this was not his priority, that what he was more concerned with had less to do with Ardyn than Noctis.

The mere thought of his son’s name had him whirling on his heel and stalking deeper into the armory, dodging around all manner of swords and maces and shields with the others’ footsteps echoing behind him. They did not matter—the Ring of the Lucii where it had fallen to the floor upon Ardyn’s departure did not matter—none of it mattered. None of this might have even been real for as detached as Regis felt from it all. Nothing existed but the steady thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears, the grounding pain in the palm of his hand where it gripped his weapon with white-knuckled intensity…

And Noctis.

Noctis, sprawled on the floor ahead of him.

Noctis, hair thrown messily over his face.

Noctis, one arm tucked closely to his side while the other was outstretched towards a familiar blade that Regis now regretted having ever ordered.

There was a deafening clang of metal, and a few seconds passed before Regis realized that it was his sword hitting the floor where his suddenly numb fingers dropped it. It could stay there, for all he cared; they could cart away every one of these masterful weapons and have them melted down, and he would not be bothered whatsoever. None of it would ever hold a shine to the brilliant luminescence that had been snuffed out practically by his own hand.

Not for the first time, he acknowledged that Ardyn was not wrong: he _was_ a monster, albeit of a different sort.

Regis did not deserve to stagger forward and collapse at his son’s side. He did not deserve to touch him when he reached out to roll Noctis over, cradling him gently in his lap. He did not deserve the tears that blurred his vision at the sight of his son, pale and still and so very obviously _not here_.

But he was breathing. As Regis reached out a tentative hand to cup his son’s cheek, nearly shivering at the chill that suffused his skin, it was impossible not to notice the steady rise and fall of Noctis’s chest with each breath he took. It was mesmerizing, that bit of movement, and Regis could do nothing more than stare for a long moment. There was no happiness in him, though, no relief that he might dredge up from the depths of his despair. Whether he was breathing or not, Noctis was gone, trapped within a realm of sleep where none of them could reach him.

Perhaps death would have been kinder. Like this, Noctis was but a shell—so close yet so far, alive but unwaking. It was almost more than Regis could bear.

A voice in his head that spoke with Aulea’s cadence whispered that that was not so, that as long as Noctis was alive, there was still hope. Regis hadn’t the energy to argue with it, not when it felt like hope had been blown away to a distant land where none would ever find it, himself least of all. Clarus’s reassurances had reignited a microscopic flicker within him, and this was what it had come to. Anymore, he was not certain he knew the meaning of the word, for it did not seem to follow the standard definition.

Was hope the anguish that ate at him as he pushed Noctis’s hair out of his face, wincing at the stark contrast between pale skin and black locks?

Was hope the subtle tremble in his fingers as he awkwardly stripped off his own meager excuse for a jacket to wrap it around his son and keep the ominous chill at bay?

Was hope the way his stomach clenched at the sight of a long, even cut bleeding profusely on Noctis’s palm beside the one he had inflicted before?

“Regis, stop.”

The sound of his Shield’s voice did little to draw him back from the precipice he stared into, naught but the darkness of despair looming ahead of him. It hardly registered that he had been fussing mindlessly with covering Noctis until a hand reached towards him, stilling his movements, and his words seemed to reach him from the other side of Lucis when he tonelessly insisted, “He is cold, Clarus.”

“Then we should remove him to his chambers,” replied the latter, appearing in Regis’s line of sight where he knelt beside him.

Try as he might, Regis could not raise his gaze to meet his Shield’s. It felt as though to do so would be to offer his son to the shadows that crept towards them in the dim fluorescent lights, allowing them to steal him away just as his own mistakes had. Who was to say that he wouldn’t look up for but a moment only to find that Noctis had vanished from his arms in the meantime? Stranger things had happened, and Regis was not about to take any chances.

Regardless, Clarus was correct: they could not keep Noctis here. He was cold—too cold—unnaturally cold. There was no reason for his mind to dwell on that particular aspect of his son’s condition, not when there were so many other concerns to be considered, but it was all Regis could think about. They needed to get Noctis off the freezing marble floor, out of this chilly armory, away from the cold metal…

Blinking aside the moisture that had thus far merely threatened to roll down his cheeks, Regis absentmindedly made that his mission. As unmoored as he felt, adrift at sea with no light to guide his way to shore, he could do that much. If he had a goal in mind, then perhaps it would not hurt so deeply to gather his son into his arms and pretend that everything was going to be all right.

What a foolish thought, yet it was all he could cling to as he did just that. Noctis was understandably heavier in his grasp than when he was a babe, although Regis hardly noticed the weight. It was nothing compared to that which bore down on his shoulders as he turned towards the exit and strode past the others without truly seeing them.

No one attempted to take his son from him in the process, nor would he have let them if they tried. No one said a word as Regis clutched Noctis tightly to his chest with a silent apology he might never hear.

After all these years, after all he had sacrificed, they had failed.

 _He_ had failed.

 

***

 

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

They were never supposed to endure the sight Ignis was witnessing: a king, broken perhaps beyond repair, carrying the near lifeless body of his son. Certainly, it had always been a possibility—when it came to royalty, there was no denying that dangers lurked around every corner. That was what he and Gladio had been trained to avoid, though; they had spent all these years watching over Noctis and ensuring that he was both emotionally and physically well.

Now, however, it seemed like such a farce. Ardyn had gotten his way regardless, and Ignis had no defense against the conviction that it was entirely his own fault.

What had he been thinking earlier? What had possessed him to say such things when he _knew_ Noctis was… _Noctis_? In his own mind, it had made sense to present a steady and encouraging front, even one of normality when his prince’s life was in flux. He had thought it would be best to make a clean break, a clear line between Noctis’s old life and the one that he would be adopting at the Citadel. What better way to do that than to model the appropriate relationship that they were now to have? Ignis was his _chamberlain_ as much as he was his friend; there would have to be moments where one took precedence over the other, even if he hated the implications of that thought.

After all these years, it was a more difficult transition than he had anticipated. Seeing Noctis in the corridor on the way to his father’s chambers? Yes, that had been quite the trial. He had not been expected until much later in the day, which meant that Ignis had spent hours rushing around like a madman ensuring that everything was prepared according to the king’s wishes. All of Noctis’s messages had come through, and despite the urge that constantly had him on the brink of returning his calls, Ignis elected with great difficulty to ignore them. What was he to say when Noctis inevitably told him the so-called _news_? This lie had gone far enough. Answering the phone and pretending that he didn’t know about who Noctis was when he would have seen the exact opposite mere hours later? It was more than Ignis was capable of.

That appeared to be the prevailing theme today.

As he trailed along at the back of their morose, almost funerary parade, Ignis silently reprimanded himself for his foolishness. He hadn’t been able to answer one phone call or return one text, yet he had been quite willing to pretend that nothing was wrong when Noctis finally remarked on his behavior? Of all the shameful acts committed today, that had to be the worst.

Although Noctis’s expression was blank where his head was propped up against the king’s shoulder in a useless attempt at comfort, Ignis could only see the pained betrayal he had tried to hide from them earlier. The prince had never been altogether difficult to read, yet Ignis had wished that he was not so transparent in that regard when they stood toe to toe in his bedroom less than an hour ago. How could he not when the eyes he had known since they were children glared at him with such contempt, such distrust…

Such sadness. Such anguish.

Such _grief_.

And Ignis had attempted to convince him that all this was _normal_. To him, it was, but Noctis was a much different creature. Where Ignis prided himself on his ability to use logic and reason even in the face of emotional turmoil, Noctis was the exact opposite. He would never admit it, but his feelings tended to rule his life, a trait Ignis had known would need tempering in the coming years. Was today the time for that? Was it best to start on that training, on that _distance_ when the pain of realizing all that he had lost and all that he stood to lose was still fresh?

No, it was not.

Ignis had done it anyway.

They had said so many terrible things, whether they’d meant to or not. Gladio, for all his linguistic faults, had at least offered a better explanation for their lies than Ignis had been able to. He was by no means gentle, nor had he entirely thought through a great deal of what he was saying, and it definitely showed in his abrasive wording. Even so, Ignis wished that he could have at least opened his mouth to do more than offer solidarity and worthless platitudes that would mean nothing to someone as emotional as Noctis.

When they had acquiesced to the prince’s request for privacy—or demand, rather—Ignis hadn’t thought much of it except to ponder the gnawing guilt that had taken up residence in the pit of his stomach. In the safety of Noctis’s apartment, it had been so simple to believe that there weren’t any other issues besides the tension and unease between them. Never would he have suspected that Noctis would vanish from under their noses, that he would glance up from his conversation with Nyx to find the bedroom door suddenly open and the space beyond suspiciously vacant.

Never would he have believed it if someone told him that he might not get the chance to make things right with one of his oldest, truest friends.

Thoughts of what he never should have said swirled through his mind as his feet carried him towards Noctis’s apartment alongside the others, all of whom appeared as deeply injured by this turn of events as himself. It was always difficult to tell with the marshal, yet the grim set of his lips and tension in his shoulders spoke volumes; Master Clarus was equally somber, although he was holding up a bit better than the rest of them, what with his constant attention to the king’s stoically heartbroken expression. His son, however, was far more expressive than Ignis had seen him in years. That was not a pleasant realization, especially when he recalled where it was that he had last spotted the puckered discomfort on his face: twelve years ago, when Noctis had appeared on the brink of death and neither of them had been able to do a damn thing to help him. Even Nyx, who had always been adept at hiding his emotions behind a wall of duty (he had to be to spend so much time with Noctis from the beginning) was not able to entirely maintain his composure—it was visible in the lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight downward turn of his mouth, the way he brought up the rear as though there might be danger lurking behind. With Ardyn able to slip in and out of the Citadel at will, Ignis supposed that there wasn’t much sense in denying that it was a distinct possibility.

It was almost insulting to reach Noctis’s floor and step out of the elevator to see guards that did not experience the same devastation. They undoubtedly felt shock and loss at the image of their prince looking like death itself in the king’s arms, of course, but it was a detached emotion at best. They did not _know_ Noctis; they had not grown up with him and watched him become the young man that the king struggled to support despite his wordless refusal of aid. They did not know that Noctis loved animals, hated vegetables with a passion, and had an almost concerning obsession with various species of fish. They had only witnessed the confused, angry, even frightened prince that had wandered these halls earlier that day. Not once had they seen one of Noctis’s _true_ smiles, or the way he bowed his head when he did not want people to see that he was crying, or the gentle manner he adopted around Umbra and any other strays that wandered through Hammerhead.

Yes, they mourned the prince as they stepped out of their path so that the king could pass. They could never mourn Noctis—could never mourn _Noct_.

Ignis could accomplish nothing else.

His heart was heavy when he stepped inside the apartment it felt like he had only just run out of, nodding to Drautos where he stood by the door more out of habit than anything else. Mustering the energy to care about formalities and protocol was an impossible feat, so it was the best he could manage for the time being. Besides, it was not as if he reported to the captain of the Kingsglaive; his position was with Noct and, by extension, the king. It was his duty, as it was Gladio’s, to remain at their sides even if there was nothing they could do.

It was Nyx’s duty to break off from them with one last reluctant glance at Noct, standing at attention in the corridor with the rest of the Glaives awaiting their orders.

It was Cor’s duty to leave them at the door with a muttered explanation about reinforcing the Crownsguard presence around Noct’s chambers.

It was Master Clarus’s duty to shut all of that out so that King Regis might find some privacy in which to grieve his loss without the eyes of his subjects upon him.

By the time he slid the lock into place and they crossed to Noct’s room, Ignis thought the silence might drive them all to madness. That did not convince him to speak, however, not when the king’s face stayed all their tongues indefinitely. Master Clarus waited on the threshold, leaving Ignis and Gladio to bear witness to the tender and fragile gleam in his eyes when he approached the bed, appearing hesitant to set Noct down in spite of his own agreement to bring him here in the first place.

It took a beat too long for Ignis to realize what it was that gave him pause, at least in part, and he rushed forward to pull the covers back immediately. Any other day, King Regis would have thanked him for it with a warm smile; he would have commented that it was fortunate that Ignis was here, and that he had no doubt that he was well suited to his position.

There was no warmth left to be found in him, however, as it appeared that Noct had taken it to a place where they could not follow. Instead, the king managed nothing more than a terse nod of gratitude as he gently settled him onto the mattress and smoothed Noct’s hair away from his forehead.

It was more than a little unnerving to see how natural his friend looked, as though he truly was just sleeping and would grumble at them later for doing anything that might wake him before he was ready. His chest rose and fell evenly; his eyebrows weren’t furrowed as they would have been if he was in pain. If not for the malice with which the curse had been bestowed long ago, Ignis would have thought Noct was at peace. Would that they could be so fortunate.

Ignis shook himself from those thoughts, knowing that it was futile to rail against what could not be changed, and stepped away from the bed while the king pulled the covers up to Noct’s chin. It was perhaps the most paternal gesture Ignis had ever witnessed from him, which only succeeded in making him feel like an intruder, an interloper upon this scene of grief. There was no place for duty here; there was no place for him, no place for Gladio, in this picture.

There was only Noct tucked under the warm blankets, his father perched on the edge of the bed, and the point of contact where the latter held his hand in a tight grip.

Well, perhaps that _was_ something he could help with. From where he was hovering at the foot of the bed, Ignis spied the angry red cut on Noct’s palm and distantly remembered seeing drops of blood painting the floor on their way here. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t made the connection before now. Although the steady flow appeared to have stopped, Ignis frowned to see that the wound was still bleeding sluggishly, painting King Regis’s fingers where he attempted to put pressure on the injury with no bandage to assist him.

Swallowing hard, Ignis nodded to himself. Yes, he could help with that—if only that.

He’d barely made it a few steps towards the bathroom to gather some supplies when the king quietly stopped him. “A moment, Ignis.”

“Yes, Majesty?” he replied without pause, faltering slightly. He thought it best not to argue that he hadn’t planned on leaving, although the broken gaze King Regis leveled at him seemed to beg for reassurance.

“Is there…” He trailed off, his expression marred by a grimace. Ignis waited patiently, and after a seemingly interminable minute, he continued, “Is there… _anyone_ that he…that Noctis…?”

_Oh, dear._

Ignis hadn’t foreseen that aborted question, and if the frown Gladio was sporting near the window was any indication, it was not just him. The king did not need to finish his request for Ignis to know what he meant, however: the implications were rather pointed, after all. There was only one way to break the curse, only one escape from this nightmare, and it was as simple as a kiss. To Ignis’s knowledge, it would be his first, not that Noct was ever very forthcoming with such information. Whenever he’d inquired after Noct’s potential romantic engagements, he had been quick to change the subject—where he wore some emotions on his sleeve, there were others that he would never put into words.

But Ignis knew him well, and for the first time since they met, he _wanted_ to be wrong.

“I’m…afraid not, Your Majesty,” he answered gently after a moment, struggling not to react when the king’s face crumpled in defeat. “It was not my belief that he showed a great deal of interest in such things.”

Nodding slowly, King Regis returned his attention to Noct, his face contorted into the most devastating expression Ignis had ever seen. “I understand.”

“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone, though. He probably wouldn’t have told us if there was,” Gladio murmured, somehow reading Ignis’s thoughts. That he had spoken at all was a surprise in itself: in times of emotional upheaval, Gladio tended to hold his tongue. It was not his habit to provide comfort, especially not when it didn’t involve sheer violence.

The king must have known it, as well, because the slightest twitch of a smile quirked the corner of his lips as he replied, “I appreciate your optimism, Gladiolus.”

His doubt was practically tangible, yet Ignis decided against joining Gladio in his efforts to raise the king’s spirits. How patronizing would it be to offer promises that he already knew they could never keep, even if they did have the best of intentions? In the span of a few fateful seconds, they had entered uncharted territory, and they were all left floundering as a result. Ignis simply hoped that time would be of greater value than words: maybe it was too soon to expect King Regis to do more than mourn the fact that all his plans had come to naught. Was Ignis so different? Were any of them? The wasted years laughed at them, snickering taunts and jibes that dug into Ignis’s soul like the sword that had stolen Noct from them. _You did nothing_ , they seemed to say. _It was not enough._

How could he comfort his king when he could find none for himself?

Fortunately, he did not have the opportunity to fathom an answer to that question. The task of reassuring the king was plucked rather suddenly and unexpectedly from his hands.

“The prince’s heart was not untouched.”

King Regis’s head shot up, and Ignis whirled around only to freeze in utter shock at the realization that they were no longer alone.

It had been years since the Messenger graced them with her presence—so long, in fact, that Ignis could not remember it. He had heard, of course, that she was there the night Noct was taken from the Citadel; having only been two years old at the time and very likely in bed for the event itself, it was not a visit he had been privy to. In the intervening decades, she had been as quiet as the Oracle, perhaps more so. At least the latter had offered support and advisement from afar.

Based on the glare Gladio was aiming at their new arrival, his thoughts must have erred along the same lines. Unlike Ignis, however, he did not appear as forgiving.

“Gentiana,” the king greeted her, heedless of their shock and disdain. When the Messenger merely inclined her head in return, he cleared his throat and ventured, “Are you claiming that there _is_ someone who can break this curse?”

Nodding once more, Gentiana replied, “In the shadows does the sleeping prince’s heart dwell, yet there exists a light that can guide him back to the waking realm.”

“ _Who_?” demanded the king. In that instant, the shroud of mourning seemed to part, and he nearly flew from the bed in his determination for an answer.

“It is not the blessing of the Messenger to see into the hearts of men.”

_So, she does not know._

Ignis removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration. How was this information meant to help them? Or had Gentiana arrived to dangle thoughts of hope that did not exist before their noses? He found it difficult to believe, yet he could not help seeing reason in the way Gladio’s jaw was clenched against an undoubtedly unflattering comment about where exactly the Messenger could stick her blessings.

The king did not appear to be of a similar mind, although his own disappointment was evident as he deflated into his previous position at Noct’s side. The Messenger could not have seen it, not with her eyes closed like they had been since she materialized, yet she continued in what Ignis could only describe as a more soothing tone.

“The prince’s heart is known to few. To them, a solution will be made plain.”

“We already tried that. Got any better ideas?” Gladio blurted out, arms folded over his chest to hide the way his fists were balled up in anger.

“It _is_ possible that Prompto might be of some assistance,” interjected Ignis before he could continue. It earned him a glare, but that did not dissuade him from pointing out, “As unlikely as it is that Noct ever spoke of an interest in someone, I doubt he would have been able to hide it from Prompto for long.”

That much, although he hated to admit it, was true. Over the years, he had grown fond of Prompto; they all had, and he had become a member of their group of friends despite his lack of insight with regards to Noct’s identity. It nevertheless rankled to realize that he could potentially hold more knowledge than them purely by virtue of having _been there_. In a perfect world, Ignis and Gladio would have gone to Hammerhead more often than the meager visits they were able to orchestrate. In a perfect world, they could have been there to observe the milestones in Noct’s life that were instead relayed to them over the phone hours after the fact.

The world was not perfect, however, so they would have to make do with the resources available to them. If nothing else, Ignis could do that much—it was what he had been trained for.

So, he swallowed down the irritation at his lack of adequate information and nodded when King Regis ordered, “Contact him. Do whatever you must to locate this person and bring them here.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” acknowledged Ignis, fully prepared to take his leave and walk all the way to Hammerhead if that was what it took to wake Noct. It was only belatedly that he realized Gladio did not share the sentiment; if anything, he seemed rooted to the spot, his gaze fixed on Noct and a small crease between his eyebrows.

For the merest fraction of a second, Ignis did not understand. His temper flared in his chest, and he quite nearly pointed out that he was wasting time standing there when they had work to do. Then it struck him perhaps more deeply than ever before: Gladio was Noct’s Shield. If anyone had suggested to Master Clarus that he was to abandon King Regis’s side when he was incapable of defending himself, he would have had a few choice words for the poor simpleton. It mattered little that they were in a fortification filled to the brim with guards and soldiers and retainers who would do everything in their power to see to it that Noct remained safe. After all, that had not been enough in the end—the curse had still been triggered in spite of their best efforts. For all they knew, Ardyn could return; he could slip right into this room and kill Noct in his sleep, and none of them could stop him. A mage of his power could raze the Citadel and all of Insomnia to the ground in the time it took for them to realize he was even there.

How, then, could a Shield leave his charge? How could Gladio drag himself away and simply _hope_ that Noct would be here when they returned? Hope had betrayed them at every turn thus far, so it was not as though he was being unreasonable in that regard.

The king had to know that that was what gave him pause, because the smile he offered both of them was as bolstering as he could muster when he spoke again.

“You have no need to fear. I will remain at his side until you return.”

Well, that was at least partially a lie: there were a great many things to fear, not least of which being what they would find when they came back. Even so, Ignis believed him and took solace from the idea that King Regis would stay here in their absence. There was a fire in his eyes that made it quite clear that the father was going to win against the king in this battle of the wills, and Ignis did not doubt for a moment that he would reign from his son’s bedside as easily as he would from any throne.

If his assurances weren’t enough, it eased Ignis’s nerves significantly when Gentiana calmly added, “The mages, too, gather to aid the sleeping prince.”

“Couldn’t have done that earlier, huh?”

“Gladio,” scolded Ignis sharply, the latter simply shrugging with a hostile frown at their guest.

For her part, the Messenger did not appear offended by his anger at what he likely deemed to be her lack of useful assistance. Ignis could remember him muttering similar sentiments about the Oracle when they were young and maintained a constant vigil over a similar sickbed.

Unperturbed, Gentiana seemed to glide closer to the bed as she explained, “It is the will of the gods that the strength of humanity determines their own destiny.”

“So, you did nothin’.”

Ignis sighed. “ _Gladio_.”

It surprised him that the king did not remark on his disrespect, but he realized why a moment later when he spotted the Ring of the Lucii in the palm of Gentiana’s outstretched hand.

On the other side of the room, Gladio’s jaw dropped, and he stuffed a hand in his pocket with a muttered, “The hell?!”

The Messenger did not turn towards him or acknowledge the fact that she had somehow summoned the heirloom from where Gladio had hastily stored it when they followed the king out of the armory. Rather, she bowed her head and spoke words that Ignis suspected were meant for none of them.

“As the protection of the gods was promised to the future king, let it now be done.”

With that, the clear crystal at the center of the Ring of the Lucii glowed bright, illuminating the chamber until it was as though daylight filled the room despite the dark sky outside. It banished the shadows from every corner and lit up their faces seemingly from within. In that majestic light, the Messenger appeared as more than the mortal Ignis knew her to be: _this_ was the power of the Six, and she wielded it with the grace and fortitude of the gods themselves. Before he could marvel further or question what was happening, the luminescence burned into a blinding radiance, and Ignis was forced to shield his eyes.

When the chamber returned to normal and he blinked away the spots of color left behind, it was to discover that everything had changed.

Gentiana was gone, but her magic remained. The Ring of the Lucii glowed dimly where it now adorned Noct’s left hand; while his palm had been bleeding mere moments ago, the skin was now clear of blemishes, unmarred as though he had never been hurt in the first place.

And outside…

Outside, there was a light blue tinge to the air where a magical wall had been erected around the entirety of the city.

“You see?” mused the king, the tears that he had effectively staved off thus far finally winning out over his unshakable resolve. “Noctis will be well looked after.”

That much, Ignis could not argue with. Nor, it seemed, could Gladio. They simply stared out the window in awe, watching the subtle glow that stretched almost as far as the distant horizon and feeling for the first time as though there might be a way out of this.

The gods had done their part. Now, it was up to them to do theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters just keep getting longer and longer for some reason... 
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for all of your amazing feedback! I know I've said it before, but you have no idea what it means to me when I receive an email that there is a comment waiting or new kudos have been added. Honestly, even if there weren't, I would be insanely flattered by the sheer number of views this story has gotten. It means the world to me that I am able to create something you enjoy, and I hope I can continue to do so as we move forward. Thank you again, and I will see you next week!


	23. Missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, we are over 200k! I never imagined this story would get so long! But hey, it got me through NaNoWriMo this year, so I'll take it!
> 
> I hope you enjoy what's in store!

Leaving Insomnia wasn’t the hardest thing Gladio ever had to do, but it came pretty damn close. There hadn’t been any relief whatsoever in finding out that Iris’s first date was with someone who had plans to join the Crownsguard, not even when that meant that his record had been checked and double-checked just to be safe. Maybe it made him a terrible Shield, yet getting away from Noct’s bedside at least allowed him to breathe a little easier when he didn’t have the constant reminder of his failure right in front of him.

Of course, absence hadn’t lessened the weight of his guilt. That was probably going to take a lot longer than he cared to think about, and that was only _if_ they managed to wake Noct up so that he could apologize properly.

What he’d said before… Well, there was no use regretting it now. After all, Noct needed to hear it from someone, right? There was no beating around the bush with this, not when every secret they’d ever kept had been blown wide and they found themselves in a different place from where they’d spent the last fifteen years. They couldn’t stumble through the dark forever; they had too much to accomplish in order to get Noct caught up. There was teaching him more polished defensive skills than merely whacking somebody with a stick, showing him the ropes when it came to living at the Citadel, helping him understand all that ruling a country entailed… It hadn’t been a matter of emotions and hurt feelings, as much as Gladio knew they had to sort all of that out eventually. Ignoring the hard facts simply meant that those thoughts would fester—getting it out in the open and pushing Noct past his initial discomfort was necessary in moving forward. The rest could be dealt with later, especially when Gladio knew that it was going to take more than just one conversation to heal those wounds. Ignis hadn’t been willing to take a decisive step in one direction or another, so it had fallen to him. If Gladio had always been good at anything, it was getting through to Noct when he wanted to be stubborn. Sometimes it backfired, and they’d ended up in some fairly heated arguments when they were younger; mostly they came out of them with a better understanding of each other in the end, though. And yeah, maybe he didn’t have to speak as abrasively about it as Ignis constantly accused him of doing, but Noct could be a tough nut to crack. (So was he, not that that was the point.)

The _point_ was that Ignis didn’t have it in him to be as callous as they needed to be if they were going to break through the wall Noct tended to build around himself. Gladio, on the other hand, knew that there were moments when you had to give up being the popular friend to be a true one—and that wasn’t even counting what it meant to be a good Shield on top of it all.

Ultimately, he hadn’t had much choice but to make sure his prince knew that what they’d done had been to protect him. In hindsight, Gladio just wished he’d found a better way to say it.

Moping about what had happened wasn’t likely to change that, so they hadn’t wasted any time in gathering what they needed and setting out from the Citadel with the king’s blessings following them. Or, what blessings he _could_ offer when he hardly took his eyes off Noct as they left. That was probably the most heartbreaking sight of all, which was saying something when Gladio had been there for the whole scene in the armory. It didn’t hold a candle to this, though. It didn’t compare to how devastatingly gentle King Regis’s hands had been when they almost obsessively straightened Noct’s blankets to stave off a chill that only their prince seemed to feel; it didn’t make his stomach clench as much as watching Ignis gently retrieve that old Carbuncle toy from Noct’s bag and tuck it under the covers with him, bowing his head when the king tearfully thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

It didn’t hurt like the empty space in Gladio’s gut that opened wide when he realized that protecting Noct required leaving him.

This wasn’t their first rodeo—they’d spent plenty of time apart since they were kids, and it wasn’t like they’d had phones in those early years. Leaving Noct behind in this state was different, however. It felt more _final_ , even though he knew they were coming back. It was difficult to see it any other way when they’d spent so long preparing only for the unthinkable to happen at the last moment. Now, they were scrambling to find their footing, himself in particular. When Noct returned to the Citadel, when he stepped into his new life as the prince of Lucis instead of the relative nobody of Hammerhead, they were supposed to be inseparable: Shield and future king, always together and forsaking all others. It was an honor that every Amicitia had inherited, and Gladio had internalized their creed when he was almost too young to know what it meant.

Whatever the king did, his Shield would stand beside him.

Whatever the king felt, his Shield would share in as well.

Wherever the king went, his Shield would follow.

That last one was what gave Gladio pause. There was no following Noct now; there was no finding him wherever he was and helping him escape. It was more aggravating than words could describe: never in his life had Gladio felt so helpless, especially where Noct was concerned. Even when he was attacked by that daemon, there had been _something_ they could do no matter how worthless it seemed at the time. Ignis had been the one to convince him that just being there was enough, the hypocrite—he hadn’t been so good at remembering that himself, although Gladio supposed that made sense when Ignis was such a damn stick in the mud if he couldn’t do his duty. Still, he’d had a point. Noct _had_ been a lot better when they were around. That wasn’t saying much when it simply meant that he was curled in a ball under the covers instead of curled in a ball under the covers and _petrified_ , but hey, progress.

The curse stole that from them along with their friend and prince. Being there wasn’t enough anymore; sitting at his bedside waiting wasn’t enough. For all Gladio could tell, he didn’t even know they were there. This ailment wasn’t like when they were kids, nor was it any sort of natural sleep. Noct didn’t stir, didn’t budge an inch the whole time they had been discussing their options and staring down the Messenger in equal measures. (Okay, maybe the latter was just him.) His eyes didn’t move behind their lids, and his breathing was so perfectly uniform that it was almost unnerving. Not once did he register their presence, and although it clearly made the king feel better, he didn’t seem to notice or care about blankets or comforting stuffed animals. If he _was_ in there, then he was a lot further away than any of them could begin to fathom. He was beyond their reach by every definition, and it lit a fire in Gladio’s chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Because Noct had gone to a place where Gladio couldn’t follow.

They needed to do something. It wasn’t a matter of _trying_ —they _had_ to bring Noct back. If that meant waltzing straight up to the doors of Zegnautus Keep and choking that goddamn mage until his eyes burst out of his head, then Gladio was fully prepared to get the job done.

For as big a pacifist as Ignis tended to be (he called it _using his brain before his fists_ , but Gladio saw it differently), he appeared to be very much on the same page. At least, that was what Gladio had to assume given what a snarky little shit he was being.

“Anything?”

“Not in the five minutes since you last asked,” Ignis retorted sharply, eyes fixed on the road as he dropped his phone in the cupholder between them. The consternation on his face was brought on by more than Gladio’s questions, though.

“Somethin’ ain’t right about this,” he murmured.

Ignis offered him a curt nod. “I agree. It’s rather unlike Prompto not to answer his phone, especially for Noct.”

He could say that again. Prompto was pretty good about picking up or replying to their texts if they needed to get in touch with him; it was like the damn thing had been glued to his side ever since they’d all chipped in to get him one a couple years back. (Refugees from Tenebrae apparently didn’t carry enough gil to take care of the essentials.) He and Noct had been thick as thieves almost since he’d arrived in Hammerhead, so it was no surprise that in the few instances when they weren’t within shouting distance, he was quick to answer.

What _did_ come as a shock was that he wasn’t doing so now.

Ignis had called twice before they left the Citadel, once from his own phone and again from Noct’s. It wasn’t that they thought he would ignore them—more like he would be sure to pick up if he saw Noct’s name after everything that had gone down at the outpost. Hell, he probably would have answered with some dumb joke about royalty summoning him now that he had to know what was up; it would have been tough to hide, that was for sure.

Instead, the line rang. And rang. And _rang_. Then it went to that stupid voicemail he’d made where he basically screeched in your ear that he couldn’t come to the phone. Okay, maybe he didn’t screech, but when he was excited, that high-pitched yammering amounted to about the same thing.

“You sure you don’t wanna just call Cid?” asked Gladio after a beat. It was difficult not to regret it when Ignis shot him a surly glare, but he pressed on regardless, “Just sayin’, if anyone knows where he is, it’s probably the old man. Maybe he’s workin’ in the garage and didn’t hear the phone go off.”

“Rather optimistic of you.”

Snorting, Gladio turned to stare out the window and muttered, “Guess someone’s gotta be.”

“I never thought I would see the day when you volunteered for the job.”

“You see anyone else around?”

Ignis paused, and for a few minutes, there was only the muffled sounds of the pavement beneath the car as they flew down abandoned side streets towards the border. Just when Gladio thought he was doomed to utter silence all the way to Hammerhead, however, his companion heaved a sigh and shook his head with a pensive frown.

“It’s not that I think your idea is _wrong_ ,” he began slowly, as though he were chewing over every word in an attempt not to insult Gladio further. It was a nice gesture but not exactly necessary—they were all on short fuses today, though, so Gladio didn’t hold it against him.

“You just think it’s a _bad_ idea.”

Grimacing, Ignis evaded, “I believe that it is more complicated than merely calling.”

“What’s so complicated about it?” he demanded incredulously. “You ask if he’s seen Prompto then hang up. Simple.”

“The question _is_ a simple one, but do use your brain, Gladio,” Ignis shot back testily, apparently abandoning the gentle approach. “Say we do call Cid. _His_ first question will be about Noct. I find it highly unlikely that he will allow the conversation to pass without at least inquiring after how he is settling in. Would _you_ care to inform him that the man he raised from the time he was an infant has been felled by the same curse Cid was meant to protect him from?”

_…Okay, he’s got a point there._

Gladio struggled to come up with an answer to that, but everything that popped into his head sounded too cruel to voice. Ultimately, all he could manage was, “Ain’t like he’s not gonna ask as soon as we get there.”

“No, but it will be a lot kinder to tell him in person rather than relaying the news over the phone,” sniffed Ignis in his snotty, morally superior way. Gladio usually hated when he did that, but this time around, he couldn’t really argue. It wasn’t like he was wrong, after all.

“So…what? We barge into the garage, ask about Prompto, drop that bombshell on ‘im, then leave? Sounds real sympathetic there, Specs,” he pointed out instead.

“Do you have a better plan?”

“Than you? Yeah, right.”

“I appreciate your vote of confidence.”

“Figured you would.”

Ignis’s lips quirked suspiciously to the side for a moment before the humor slid off his face, leaving something impossibly sad behind that Gladio thought they’d ditched back at the Citadel. Silly him.

“We can’t do this,” murmured Ignis a few seconds later.

“Do what?”

“Allow ourselves to quarrel. Now is not the time. Noct must be our first priority.”

Raising an eyebrow, Gladio grumbled, “You don’t think he is?”

“He most certainly is.”

“Then the hell are you on about?”

Huffing in irritation, Ignis explained as if he was speaking to a particularly young and stupid child, “We are allowing our frustration with the situation to cloud our judgment. We cannot achieve what the king intends if we are constantly at each other’s throats about every decision that needs to be made. That will do nothing but slow us down.”

“Pretty sure that’s not a problem,” mumbled Gladio with a wary glance at the speedometer. He didn’t think it was possible for someone to roll their eyes any harder than Ignis did in response.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. We gotta play nice—I get it.”

“Indeed.”

They descended into silence again after that, which was becoming an unfortunate habit from the looks of things. Gladio didn’t like it one bit—he and Ignis had never been uncomfortable with each other before, but the lack of communication between them made this ride almost as awkward as when they’d first met as kids. Back then, neither of them had known what to make of the other. Ignis had admitted on countless occasions that he’d considered Gladio to be some kind of brute, the sort of person who spoke in grunting and pointing with nothing really going on behind their face. Not that Gladio had thought all that highly of him either—a dorky little kid with glasses and a button-up shirt? What was he, thirty? When they were younger, Gladio had teased him mercilessly for that; he’d even convinced Noct to join in every once in a while, although the latter was surprisingly adept at finding other stuff to playfully mock. As the years passed, though, that had changed. They’d learned how to work around one another in tandem, how to be partners when their jobs and personalities were so completely at odds half the time. They’d grown up together and turned into more than just coworkers.

When had their prince—their friend, their brother—become the glue that held them together? When had his safety become their boiling point? They’d been at each other’s throats twelve years ago, but that was different. The silence hadn’t hung quite so heavy in the air, and he’d be lying if he said they were anywhere near mature enough to handle the situation at that age. Sure, he’d thought so then, but he knew better now.

They should be able to work through this. They _had_ to be able to deal with their grief and still keep going, and not just for Noct’s sake. There had to be something left of them when they got back to Insomnia, with or without some love-struck girl in tow.

_With_ , he told himself firmly. _Definitely with._

There was no room for failure. Everyone was relying on them: the king and his dad, Nyx and Cor, probably Cid when they told him what happened. Even Noct, despite how angry he’d been with them a few hours ago. He didn’t know it, but he was counting on them too. If they came back empty-handed, if they had to be the ones who broke the news that they’d failed not once but _twice_ …

_Not gonna happen._

Gladio wasn’t going to be one of those Shields who lost their king before their time, who didn’t precede them into the beyond the way they were born to do. He wasn’t going to go down in history as one of the few, the shameful, the Shields who failed their charges.

He wasn’t going to admit defeat and let his brother die before he’d truly gotten a chance to live.

They were going to break this spell, and when they did, they would sit down and have a hell of a talk about everything. If they were lucky, Noct might even forgive them sometime this decade.

Until then, Ignis was right: they needed to get through this without tearing each other down at every turn. They’d been friends too long to let something like this crush them. If there was one thing that would never change, it was that they made one damn good team in spite of all their differences.

So, Gladio took a deep breath and swallowed down his sarcastic retorts. He swallowed down his doubt and his poorly masked despair, allowing for nothing more than genuine sentiment when he quietly asked, “You really think Prompto’s got any leads?”

A moment of silence, then, “I don’t know. However, if anyone would, it’s him. We mustn’t lose faith until we have exhausted all our options.”

It was only their newfound resolve _not_ to let this situation get to them that kept Gladio from openly observing that they were already running dangerously low on those. If Prompto didn’t have any ideas, then they were out of luck as far as he could tell. Who else were they supposed to go to? Noct had grown up isolated, and for good reason. It wasn’t like he went to a real school so that they could at least sift through a pool of likely candidates; the most company he got was from an inanimate mage, a stray dog, and people he thought were his family. It was possible that he’d fallen hard and fast for someone who passed through the outpost on occasion, but even if that were the case, it narrowed their search down to just about _all of Lucis_. They’d be hunting for a needle in a haystack—a needle that was painted the same color as the hay.

Gladio didn’t like to think of himself as a pessimist so much as a realist, and realistically? They had been running out of options before they discovered Noct was missing.

That wasn’t the sort of input they needed right now, though, not when their foremost priority was exactly what Ignis said: waking Noct up by whatever means necessary. If that meant getting him a kiss, then damn it, they were going to find the right person if it killed them.

Gladio forced himself to repeat that like a mantra as they left the center of the city and approached the outer gates. It was so surreal, looking up through the tinted windows to see a glowing blue barrier standing between them and the stars that had lit up the night sky while they were preparing to leave. A glance at the clock told him that it was closer to morning than evening now, but he hardly felt the exhaustion he knew he should. Adrenaline was still pumping through his veins, reminding him that he had a duty to uphold and a friend to save. Besides, Noct was going to be getting enough sleep for the rest of them, so it was only fitting that they pressed on and got things done in his stead. They didn’t have time to rest anyway: every second lost was another step closer to Ardyn making his next move. And he _would_ make another move—of that, Gladio was absolutely certain. That spiteful mage had come too far to just leave things the way they were. Sure, he’d let them stew for a while; he’d laugh about the blow he’d dealt to the king with this little number. That wasn’t going to last forever, though. Eventually, when he got bored of this particular brand of revenge, he was going to come back and finish the job. At this point, Gladio suspected that it was simply a matter of whether he killed the king before Noct could wake up or if he killed Noct first so King Regis had to watch. Either way, it wasn’t something they were going to allow, not for an instant. If nothing else, that made the shimmering wall around Insomnia all the more comforting when Gladio couldn’t take up arms to protect his charge in person.

Maybe he _was_ getting a little tired after all, because with thoughts of unpredictable mages in his head, it struck him just how beautiful the magic of the gods could be when put to good use.

He was never, _ever_ telling Ignis that. The latter probably already knew it because he was obnoxious that way, but still.

By the time they made it across the city and pulled up at the gates leading out of Insomnia, the sun was beginning to peek over the horizon like the shameless bastard it was. Gladio couldn’t help scowling at it as they drew closer to the border guard, turning his head away so they wouldn’t think his scorn was directed at them. What right did the sun have to show its face after it had taken their light with it yesterday and not brought it back? What right did it have to rise when everything was wrong? It should have stayed sleeping until their prince woke up; the darkness would have been an appropriate atmosphere for the sentiment they all shared.

But the sun didn’t care. The sun did what it wanted with little thought to the humans suffering below. It merely winked mischievously at them through the barrier, sending a shudder up Gladio’s spine.

The unease that the sight of it left in the pit of his stomach was even more unsettling than the sensation of passing through static when they drove forward a moment later. Unlike the guards, who were staring up at the Messenger’s gift with unbridled confusion, they weren’t bothered by the presence of the wall itself. Then again, they actually understood why it was there; all the gate watch had to go on was the cryptic orders Cor had relayed overnight that it was not a threat, at least not to those inside the city. As they set off from the Citadel, Gladio had wondered whether that safety would extend to anyone who tried to leave, but apparently they didn’t have to worry after all. It looked like Gentiana had put it in place to keep threats _out_ , not imprison _them_ inside.

In ways that had nothing to do with the Six, however, it was more difficult to depart the Crown City than ever before. He shouldn’t have felt so empty to glance back at his home, his destiny, and see it engulfed in a towering blue bubble of protection. It shouldn’t have filled him with dread to imagine that he could spot the very top of the Citadel in the distance, a mere pinprick that he knew wasn’t there as they turned onto the highway and it all disappeared from sight. They’d made this trip enough times that the journey should have been familiar, but in this instance, it was accompanied by a caustic sort of restlessness that had Gladio’s nerves fraying and his knee bouncing beneath the dashboard.

What should have given him hope only served as a reminder of what was going to happen if they failed.

Insomnia couldn’t be separated from the rest of the world forever, and no matter how powerful the Messenger was, they’d put too much faith in her before. There was no guarantee that the wall would stand up to Ardyn’s magic, especially if he was determined to get inside. In the event that he _did_ , that he was able to slip past the barrier and into the Citadel unhindered, what would they find when they got back? Would there even be anything left to return to? Everything that could possibly go wrong swam through Gladio’s head as they drove, only instead of making the trip pass faster, his reservations seemed to slow the clock until he was sure it stopped altogether at one point.

For all his talk of staying strong and hanging in there, Ignis definitely felt the same. It was written all over his face, from the tense set of his jaw to the way his eyes kept darting to the mirror as if they’d still be able to catch a glimpse of the city if he tried hard enough. They sort of could, if you counted the top of the magical dome where it was rapidly shrinking into the distance behind them. Otherwise, it was useless to even bother.

The best Gladio could do was try to keep his mind blank and his head on straight as they rode towards Hammerhead in silence. Dwelling on what had happened and what they were about to do would only piss him off, and that was the last thing they needed when they got to the outpost and had to break the news to Cid. Well, by _they_ , he meant _Ignis_. Gladio was already well aware that he wasn’t any good with that sort of thing. He was capable enough in a pinch, but if the guy trained to tell people things they didn’t want to hear without getting punched in the face was around, then why not take advantage? Ignis was pretty spry—if the wrenches came flying, he’d be fine.

The time to test that theory ended up arriving sooner rather than later. Gladio had halfheartedly hoped they’d be able to slip into Hammerhead before dawn, drag some information out of Prompto, and hightail it out of there before Cid discovered they’d been anywhere near the place. Not exactly the most realistic course of action, especially considering the fact that nothing went on in that outpost without Cid’s knowledge, but they were supposed to be keeping faith alive and all that shit. Needless to say, he was mildly disappointed when they pulled into the parking lot just as the sun was mounting the distant hills and found that the garage was already open.

“The hell’re they doin’ up?” he grumbled, checking the time on his phone. It wasn’t obscenely early, yet he knew from experience that they didn’t ordinarily open for another hour or so.

Ignis, of course, wasn’t ruffled at all. “Perhaps they had more work than usual.”

“Uh huh…” Gladio glanced pointedly at the side lot, where Cid’s long-term projects were all contentedly rusting away and only a couple of new arrivals peered out at them from the lifting gloom. “Definitely busting at the seams here, Iggy.”

“The _why_ doesn’t matter. Our task remains the same regardless,” he huffed as he pulled the keys from the ignition and slid out of the car.

Oh, yeah. This was already going great.

And it was about to get worse.

The second Gladio shut the door behind him and followed Ignis towards the building, he nearly grimaced to see Cindy watching them from inside, a surprised frown on her face that he knew meant trouble. Fortunately for them, it didn’t look like Cid was around yet. There was no telling how long their luck would hold, though, so it was in everyone’s best interests to get this over with as quick as possible.

“Wasn’t expectin’ t’see you fellas for a while,” Cindy greeted them as they stepped into the fluorescent glow of the garage, although her tone wasn’t particularly welcoming like it used to be. Ignis took it all in stride.

“Matters of great importance required us to visit on official business,” he explained, inclining his head in something Gladio figured was either respect or apology. Either way, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to get all formal when he didn’t need to be, so Cindy didn’t think twice about it.

“ _Official business_ , huh? Well, what kinda business can li’l ol’ Hammerhead do for ya?”

“You seen Prompto anywhere?” asked Gladio. He ignored the exasperated look Ignis shot him—they would just be wasting time if they got caught up in pleasantries.

He admittedly _could_ have eased into it a little more, though. For a few seconds, Cindy didn’t seem able to process his question. Instead, her frown deepened, and she blinked at him as though he had told her that chocobos were going extinct. “Prompto?”

_Oh, come on._

“Yeah. Prompto. Average height, blond hair, gets on damn near everybody’s last nerve.”

Snorting indelicately, Cindy retorted, “I know who ya mean. I just figured if your _official business_ had to do with Prompto, y’all could’a called him ‘stead of running all the way out here.”

“We attempted to reach him on his phone but received no answer. As such, we thought perhaps you knew where we might find him,” Ignis interjected, probably so that Gladio didn’t have another chance to put his foot in his mouth. That was fine by him.

Cindy nodded slowly, hands on her hips as she opened her mouth to reply, but it was another voice entirely that answered them—the one Gladio had been dreading ever since they left Insomnia.

“Ain’t nobody seen ‘im since yesterday,” Cid grunted while he made his way slowly down the stairs from the apartment. His expression, too, had lost a lot of the warmth it once held, but Gladio figured that was only to be expected. The guy wasn’t what he’d call a _people person_ ; most of the time, he wondered if Cid only tolerated them because they were friends with Noct and he wasn’t given much say in the matter.

Admirably undeterred by his grouchiness, Ignis cautiously observed, “Nyx indicated that he was here when they left.”

Cid made a noise Gladio was going to classify as affirmation and muttered, “Didn’t stick around after that. Figured he’s prob’ly off sulkin’ in that caravan’a his or takin’ pictures or somethin’.”

Yeah, that sounded like Prompto, all right. Noct skipped town, and he went snapping shots of the sky or whatever it was he liked looking at so much. He’d done stranger things when left to his own devices.

For some reason, Ignis didn’t appear convinced, although he nodded in acknowledgement anyway and turned towards the door. “We will have to check there, then.”

“Now, hold your chocobos,” Cid stopped him with a raised hand and matching eyebrow. His demeanor bordered on cold when he predictably continued, “I reckon y’all got better things to be doin’ out there in Insomnia than huntin’ down some kid when you could’a jus’ as easily left a voicemail. Ain’t there a prince you’re supposed to be protectin’?”

Gladio gritted his teeth against a sarcastic remark. Damn, the guy had known Noct was going to leave for twenty years. Did he have to sound so accusing, like they’d barged in and stolen him? After all, it wasn’t like Noct ever really belonged out here to begin with.

That wasn’t an argument they needed to have right now, though, nor was it any of their business. If Gladio was reading his irritation correctly, then it wasn’t their job to quell it—that was all King Regis. Their duty was sticking to the task they’d come here to fulfill, which didn’t involve Cid or his feelings at all. Noct _had_ been stolen by someone, and they weren’t at this outpost much less the garage.

If Ignis took similar offense to that implication, he didn’t let it color his tone as he expertly evaded, “I can assure you, we are indeed acting as dictated by His Majesty.”

“That so?” asked Cid, utterly unconvinced if Gladio had to guess. Ignis refused to so much as flinch.

“Quite. It is occasionally necessary to be removed from Noct’s side in order to ensure his safety, as you rightfully said.”

“Find it hard to believe that Reggie’d want you spendin’ any more time _removed_.”

He had a point there. Under ordinary circumstances, the king would definitely prefer them at Noct’s side. Those had basically been his orders when they found out he was bringing their prince home early: watch him like a hawk and don’t let him out of their sight. They’d admittedly failed steps one and two, but they also hadn’t expected Noct to vanish right out from under their noses—no one could anticipate that regardless of how many precautions they had taken. That being said, sticking to him like glue wasn’t in the cards anymore.

Now, how did they explain that to Cid _without_ explaining that to Cid?

Apparently, Ignis had no intention of avoiding the subject, at least not long enough to find out what Prompto knew the way Gladio had planned. Rather, he straightened his stance and put on his best _I Am About To Do Something I Will Hate_ face in preparation to let the hammer drop. It was at moments like these that Gladio remembered just how long Cid had known them, because he seemed to recognize it and narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Why’re y’all so damn determined to find Prompto?”

“We believe he might have some information that would be…beneficial,” Ignis began in that distant yet careful tone he always adopted when he was about to lay ten tons of terrible news on you. More out of habit than anything else, Gladio braced himself even though he was already—unfortunately—aware of the situation.

Given the way the color seemed to drain from Cid’s face, it looked like he was putting together the pieces on his own without further explanation. It was a subtle shift, but his gaze was a little angrier than it should have been when he demanded, “What kinda information?”

After a deep breath, Ignis evenly replied, “Anything involving potential persons of interest who might have caught Noct’s attention.”

_Well, that’s one way to ask if the kid had a crush_.

It was also one of the bluntest, least delicate methods he had ever seen Ignis employ in delivering unwanted news. Not that he thought there was a better way: Cid had never appreciated sugarcoating. That was one thing Gladio had always respected about him, even if he did tend to have something of a blind spot when it came to Noct. Handling him with kid gloves like he’d done for their prince over the years was ill-advised at best and disastrous at worst, though. He looked about ready to explode as it was; they didn’t need to add more fuel to the fire that was undoubtedly about to erupt at them.

“Are you tellin’ _me_ that after all this time, y’all let that sack a shit get ‘is hands on Noctis?” he growled, taking a step forward as though he might just clock them right there on the spot.

Ignis didn’t retreat, although his resolve was obviously shaken when he continued, “The curse was more…formidable than we had anticipated.”

“The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there was no stopping it once it began to take hold.”

It wasn’t like Ignis to misstep, especially not when words were involved (the guy could talk circles around anyone except maybe the king himself), but there was a first time for everything. As accurate as it was, his explanation seemed to be what set the old man off, although Gladio was surprised it took _that_ long.

“The whole point’a gettin’ him outta here early was so nothin’ like this happened! Reggie said he’d be safe with all them guards hangin’ ‘round, and that ain’t countin’ _you two_. You were supposed t’have your eyes on ‘im! And _you_ ,” he added, rounding on Gladio and jabbing a finger in his direction. “ _You’re_ his Shield. Your daddy did a better job’a protectin’ Reggie from a bunch’a lovesick teenage girls who jus’ wanted to dance with a prince. Where the hell were _you_?”

“I was doing my damn job,” Gladio protested immediately, his temper flaring at the insinuation that this whole thing was his fault—that he was somehow shirking his duties, and that _that_ was why they’d lost Noct. Yeah, he was willing to take the blame on a lot of this, not least of which being that he’d driven Noct away from them at a time when they needed to stay close. Not once had he tried to deny that, even to himself. But like hell was he going to take responsibility for something that he didn’t do, that was against every creed he’d ever been indoctrinated into as the Shield of the future king.  

None of that occurred to Cid. He simply scoffed in the face of Gladio’s indignation, waving off what he clearly saw as an excuse. “Your _damn job_ was makin’ sure he didn’t get hurt!”

“Well, if you got a better way to do it, I’m all ears.”

“Maybe don’t let ‘im anywhere near the shit Reggie done got ‘im away from in the first place. There’s a start.”

“Easier said than done when Ardyn’s involved.”

“What, he jus’ wandered on in an’ put a blade in the boy’s hand? For some big, strong Shield, I would’a thought you could handle an ancient ol’ coot like that Izunia fella.”

It was a good thing Ignis stepped between them at that moment, because Gladio thought it would be counterproductive to their mission to punch Cid in the face the way he desperately wanted to. Plus, the king probably wouldn’t be too happy about him assaulting a friend, particularly the friend who’d raised his son for him. Yeah, some mediation was more than welcome, and they were lucky to have an expert in the room.

“We are not denying that mistakes were made,” Ignis insisted, his expression just stony enough for Cid to think better of interrupting. “Regardless, there was little we could do once the curse overpowered Noct’s senses. I take it Nyx informed you of his mishap at the diner yesterday?”

That one must have stung, because Cid didn’t immediately tear into him the way he would have a second ago. Shuffling awkwardly, he folded his arms and hesitantly grunted, “Yeah, heard ‘bout that.”

“Then I’m sure you realize the sort of magic our enemy embodies is beyond what ordinary mortals are entirely capable of combating, best efforts and intentions notwithstanding.”

The beautiful thing about working so closely with Ignis? The guy could clear a room with a few well-placed words, and not one person could argue with him. Cid was no different, which was honestly sort of surprising. When they were kids, it had seemed like he could go on and on regardless of what Cor said to stop him; maybe it was simply that they’d known each other too well for the marshal to really shut him down. Ignis, however, was a completely different matter. He dabbled in logic the way Cid dabbled in mechanics—just as the latter couldn’t be faulted around cars, Ignis was a master when it came to dissecting someone else’s point and setting fire to every single fragment.

The other great thing about him was that he _knew_ it but didn’t let that make him cruel like a lot of people would.

“We did all we could to keep him safe,” he sighed, his frown turning more sympathetic than the _detached chamberlain_ expression he’d been sporting thus far, “but in the end, it wasn’t enough. The king is…understandably devastated, as are we all. We thought that…in light of the circumstances, protecting Noct would mean _not_ remaining at his side. If Prompto has any answers, then we _must_ find him. For everyone’s sake.”

Cid didn’t reply right away. Instead, he stared at them with an inscrutable gaze that Gladio had never seen from him before. Usually, Cid was an open book: his frustration, his sadness, his amusement were always easy to spot in the increasingly prominent lines that stretched across his face. All of that was veiled now, though, and it was like staring at a completely different person as they stood uncomfortably awaiting his response. As much as Gladio wanted to get this conversation over with as soon as possible, he couldn’t say he blamed him for taking a moment to mull over Ignis’s seemingly irrefutable reasoning. The last time someone from the Crown City came to him with that much logic, he’d signed on for a two-decade commitment that ended in utter failure, and not even _his_ failure. For all intents and purposes, he’d done his job right; it was the rest of them who needed to play catch-up.

Whether because Ignis was the epitome of convincing arguments or Cid simply understood that there was no use wasting time slinging petty insults, he didn’t throw around any more blame. Watching him deflate, however, was nearly as heart wrenching as seeing what this whole debacle had done to the king.

Understandable, but inconvenient. They had a job to do, and Gladio didn’t want to sit here waiting for him to work through whatever upheaval was currently gripping him. He could deal with that in private— _later_.

“You said you didn’t see him yesterday after Noct left,” Gladio prodded, ignoring the pointed glares Ignis and Cindy both aimed at him. The two of them could save their irritation for another time—they were on the clock here.

With a sidelong glance at Cid, who didn’t take that as the not so subtle prompting that it was, Cindy pursed her lips before replying, “Check the caravan like Paw-paw said. He probably ain’t even awake yet.”

“But don’t get’cher hopes up,” warned Cid, suddenly shaken out of his stupor by her answer. His gruff tone belied the reddish tinge to his eyes, but he hid it well as he turned to head back up to the apartment like the expert at emotional avoidance Gladio knew him to be. “I ain’t never seen Noctis get starry-eyed over nobody.”

“We shared the same concern,” Ignis murmured with a disappointed frown.

Grunting in agreement, Gladio added, “Let’s just hope that we’re all wrong.”

That made Cid laugh a little, although it didn’t sound the way it used to when they were growing up. It wasn’t a happy noise as much as it was resigned, accepting the inevitable instead of seizing the opportunity to fight back against their fate. Gladio nearly grimaced at the idea that Cid Sophiar, the guy who might as well be a legend based on the way Cor sometimes spoke of him, was capable of _giving up_. He guessed he could see why: they were battling something that none of them really understood, and they were flying blind _and_ deaf when it came to Noct. Still, Gladio had been trained to believe that the only time you surrendered was when you were rattling out your last breath—not even then if you could help it. For as long as he could remember, it had been drilled into his head that so long as he had the strength to stand, so long as he had the strength to fight, so long as he had it in him to get up and do his duty, that was what he had to do. Pain was no object; fear was no object. Everything was about protecting Noct, regardless of what it meant for him.

It was that thought that had him stepping forward and calling out, “Y’know, King Regis would want you there.”

The old man paused, one foot on the bottom step, and turned around to eye him incredulously. “What’s that you’re sayin’?”

Gladio awkwardly shrugged a shoulder—these kinds of conversations were definitely better suited to Ignis. “You’re his friend, right? And Noct basically _is_ your nephew after everything you’ve done for ‘im, blood or not. You should be there.”

There was a beat of silence where even the clock on the wall seemed to hold its breath, and Gladio struggled not to merely walk away without getting an answer. It was the least he could do when they were the ones who’d charged in here unannounced and dropped a bomb big enough to decimate the entire outpost.

For a few seconds, he actually thought Cid was considering it. He had that crease between his eyebrows that often meant he was either thinking hard or simply thinking hard about what an idiot you were. Either one was just as likely as the other at this point, although Gladio was hoping for the former. That, at least, might give Cid a little more hope than the defeated set of his shoulders indicated he was currently harboring.

So, of course, the old man shook his head slowly a moment later.

“I ain’t got no place in Insomnia. Not anymore.”

“One might argue,” Ignis quietly pointed out, cottoning on to Gladio’s line of thinking like only Ignis could, “that Noct is the one who has secured you a place in Insomnia again.”

Scoffing, Cid automatically retorted, “What use am I gonna be out there? Jus’ another pair’a eyes, sittin’ around mopin’.”

“Or helping guard the prince while we’re gone,” countered Gladio. His frown grew deeper when Cid outright rolled his eyes.

“An ol’ man like me ain’t got much fight in ‘im for that. Noctis has all them guards at the Citadel. They don’t need nobody gettin’ in their way.”

Great, there he went with the self-pity shtick. Of course, he wasn’t totally off base: Cid wasn’t exactly in his prime, so the odds of his battle skills being up to par if they really needed backup were probably slim to none. That didn’t mean the king wouldn’t find a use for him, even if it was just moral support while they kept an eye on Noct together. It was no different than what they’d been doing for twenty years.

Rather than say that, most likely with a few less flattering terms since Gladio was reaching the bottom of the barrel when it came to patience, he let Ignis step in to implore him, “Please consider it. If nothing else, your presence would be greatly appreciated when Noct wakes.”

Cid’s face scrunched up in disdain, but he didn’t say the words Gladio suspected he was thinking: _if he wakes._ They all knew it was a distinct possibility, especially if Prompto didn’t have any better leads than they were currently hoping for. Still, letting that thought consume them would just make things more difficult than they already were, so it wasn’t worth mentioning.

Gladio assumed that Cid agreed with him, because his shrewdly skeptical gaze didn’t translate into speech. In a drastic departure from what he would have done when they were kids, he kept his mouth shut and offered them a noncommittal half shrug before hustling up the stairs and disappearing into the apartment.

The three of them merely stared after him for a long moment, that chasm of guilt in Gladio’s stomach growing a few inches wider. He’d tried, anyway; it just wasn’t enough. Honestly, he wasn’t sure anything would be at a time like this, not after all that Cid had sacrificed only to end up at the very place they’d all been attempting to avoid. Even so, he didn’t allow himself to wallow in that small defeat for long—the best way to fill that gaping hole inside him was to get something done. No use standing around, burning the slowly burgeoning daylight.

“We should get goin’,” murmured Gladio, his voice seeming too loud in the otherwise silent garage.

Ignis sighed in response, inclining his head to Cindy one last time as they made their way towards the door. For a minute, it seemed like that would be all there was to it: information exchanged and a tense goodbye. Then, the click of boots against the concrete floor followed them, and Gladio turned to see Cindy framed in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest.

“Listen, Paw-paw’ll come ‘round. If y’all need anythin’… If we can help, come on back.”

Nodding, Gladio attempted a bolstering grin as he replied, “Thanks. You got it.”

It was impossible to make the situation better, but Cindy’s answering smile was at least a little brighter when she turned on her heel and slipped back into the garage.

The moment she was gone, Gladio felt his meager excuse for a smirk slip off his face as quickly as he’d been able to conjure it. There was no fixing what had been broken, just like there was no pretending that Cid was going to forgive them anytime soon for letting Noct slip through their fingers, but hopefully this was a start. Something told him they’d need all the help they could get, so if Cindy was willing to pony up, he wasn’t about to complain. She wasn’t the one they needed to get on their side, though.

_Two down, one to go._

Once they were alone, Ignis didn’t waste a second in wheeling around and marching towards the caravan on the other side of the outpost, leaving Gladio no choice but to follow in his wake. Fortunately, it was still early enough that they wouldn’t need to worry about an audience if they hurried: the gas station was abandoned, and there couldn’t be more than a handful of patrons inside the diner. Gladio had never been too fond of the place, but he had to admit that that was the nice thing about it. If you had business in the area, it was a lot easier to get in and out of Hammerhead than most stations in Insomnia.

Despite the hush that surrounded the sleepy outpost, however, they really _did_ need to get a move on. The relative solitude was bound to shatter any time now, especially when the sun was climbing higher and higher with every minute they wasted _not_ finding Prompto. Pretty soon, people would be flocking in for breakfast, and hunters would be passing through on their way to whatever hunt they had on their docket for today. Hammerhead would be in full swing, which meant navigating a minefield of potential spies. It didn’t even have to be one of Ardyn’s—anyone could blow their covert operation out of the water with the right information. As such, they couldn’t allow themselves to be overheard or news of Noct’s condition to spread through the kingdom, regardless of the compassion it would garner for the royal family. The king was pretty popular as it was, so they weren’t in danger of anyone celebrating. In fact, Gladio had no doubt that even the temporary loss of their prince would come as a shock to everyone, especially when they hadn’t heard a peep about Noct in years besides the fact that he was being well cared for after that disaster they called a christening. Would they be angry, though? Would they be upset that this had been hidden from them, or would they rail against the empire for their involvement? There was a lot more at stake here than some sympathetic tears of grief from the people Noct would presumably rule over one day.

Predicting the reactions of their own people was about as easy as catching a wild chocobo, but there was one thing Gladio could surmise with complete certainty: their enemies already knew. Ardyn wanted revenge. The best way to get it was to distract King Regis and then let the empire drop its heavy fist into Lucian territory. They hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the Niffs in years, something that everyone had been grateful for; with Noct out of commission and the king constantly at his bedside, there was no telling whether that would continue. Their only hope was in speed and secrecy—the empire couldn’t act if they didn’t know what was going on within their borders. Whatever happened, whatever came of their meeting with Prompto, they _had_ to keep the Niffs blind to their mission.

Which was going to be a hell of a lot easier when even _they_ had no idea what they were doing.

As they approached the caravan, Gladio nearly bumped into Ignis when the latter stopped dead a few feet short of their goal, his head tilted to the side. Frowning, Gladio leaned around him and groaned to see what it was that had gotten his attention: the door was set against its frame but very much ajar nonetheless.

“You don’t think…?”

Straightening his posture, Ignis replied with a curt, “There’s only one way to find out,” before reaching for the handle and wrenching open the door.

_Leave it to a chamberlain not to at least draw a weapon first._

Gladio huffed impatiently, although he wasn’t sure whether it was at himself or Ignis. There was no reason to think there was some kind of trap inside the caravan, but they weren’t exactly up against a guy who was playing with a full deck here either. If Ardyn wanted them out of the picture, Gladio knew for a fact that they would be dead by now, and none of their weapons would help them there. Still, it was pretty sloppy for Ignis to just waltz in when the door was open and…

Prompto was nowhere to be found.

Not waiting to let his eyes adjust to the near darkness, Gladio flipped on the lights to see that the caravan was indeed empty. Prompto wasn’t in bed like Cindy had assumed, nor did Gladio spy him through the door to his tiny bathroom. It was just him, Ignis, and the shadows they threw along the walls.

In his desperation, Gladio wondered if someone had broken in and they’d find Prompto dead in the bathtub or something, although his sense of reason won out almost immediately. The apartment was neat as a pin despite a layer of dust that blew off the counter when the door slammed shut behind them, as was common on the rare occasions when they’d been in here. Prompto was by no means a perfectionist, but he liked his stuff organized—well, more organized than Noct, anyway. Everything had a place, and unless _the muse_ took him (or whatever he called his annoying tendency to run off for pictures at a moment’s notice), that was how it always stayed. Even now, as they scanned the space with an inordinate amount of scrutiny, it all looked to be in order. Like his phone, settled on his expertly made bed.

And his camera.

The one that had been left sitting on the table beside a photograph when Prompto never went anywhere without the stupid thing.

Ignis appeared to notice it at the same time, because he frowned for a moment before muttering, “I find it difficult to believe that he would leave the door open _and_ his camera in plain sight.”

“I’d say it’s damn near impossible,” snorted Gladio, already moving around him towards the table.

“There aren’t any signs of forced entry, nor evidence of a struggle… I suppose it’s possible that he left in a hurry and did not realize the door wasn’t latched behind him. Of course, that wouldn’t account for—”

The rest of Ignis’s verbal stream of consciousness didn’t penetrate the thick haze of anger that suddenly enveloped Gladio’s entire being. His hands were shaking when he snatched the photograph from the table where it innocently awaited their attention, eyes narrowing as he surveyed the familiar landscape that had no business whatsoever in Prompto’s caravan. No one in Lucis had ever seen it in person, none except their best spies. They were the ones that usually didn’t come back, the ones that were assumed dead in the line of duty when they eventually, inevitably went silent. Before they did, though, they’d sent what images they could. All of them showed the same thing.

A city of steel and concrete.

A towering pillar with an eye into every street, every alley, every home.

The stuff of nightmares, at least if you were a Lucian.

“—dio, are you even listening?”

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Gladio had to struggle hard against the urge to crumple the photo in his fist as he ground out, “Yeah, but I think we got bigger problems than the door.”

“What is it?”

Gladio wordlessly thrust the picture at him, knowing that he would just destroy it if he held onto it a second longer. While Ignis processed the image, his jaw set and expression grim, Gladio paced the insubstantial length of the caravan and wished there was something nearby that he could punch. How were they going to tell the king that Prompto was gone and whatever answers he might have went with him? He was expecting them to come back to Insomnia with a solution, not another issue that they could add to the ever-growing heap. And that picture…

“Zegnautus Keep,” mused Ignis as though in answer to his unspoken question. Gladio grunted, pausing to lean up against the counter with his hands balled into fists at his sides.

“The imperial fortress. The hell is that doing here?”

“I would wager that it’s some sort of clue as to Prompto’s whereabouts.” Shaking his head, Ignis slowly sank into a seat at the table, his gaze still locked on the photograph. “It seems that our enemy anticipated our motives.”

“ _How_?” demanded Gladio, slamming his fist against the counter. “Nobody knew we were coming here except the king and my dad.”

Ignis’s brows furrowed deeper. “We have known for some time that Ardyn has spies in Insomnia. It would be impossible for him not to.”

“Yeah, but that would mean he’s got ‘em inside the Citadel.”

“Would that surprise you?”

No, it really wouldn’t. Gladio didn’t say that, however, choosing instead to whirl around and glare out the window so that Ignis didn’t see the despair that warred with his anger. If Ardyn had managed to get his eyes all the way into the center of their kingdom, the seat of their government, then there was no ensuring Noct’s safety now. It had already been tenuous enough, what with the mage’s irritating ability to pop in and out of his own accord; only the Messenger’s wall had provided any security or reassurance to them, and even that was so brittle that it would break at the slightest test. Maybe Ardyn wouldn’t be able to get to Noct himself, but that was hardly necessary if his minions were already inside.

And they’d left him there. They’d left their brother for the wolves to find.

“We gotta get back to the city,” Gladio burst out, halfway to the door before he even realized he’d moved. It took half a second longer for him to notice that Ignis wasn’t following him, and when he turned around, it was to discover that he hadn’t gotten up from his place at the table at all. “Ignis, let’s go.”

“No, Gladio.”

A beat of silence—two—three—

“The hell do you mean, _no_?! Noct could be in danger.”

“ _Prompto_ could also be in danger,” Ignis observed without looking up at him. His nonchalant demeanor had Gladio’s blood boiling in his veins, and it took everything he had not to go over there and drag him out of his seat.

“We got a duty to uphold.”

“Yes, we do. To wake Noct.”

“To _protect_ Noct!”

“Ensuring that nothing happens to him bodily does not solve the problem at hand,” argued Ignis, finally raising his gaze to frown at Gladio. “If we lose Prompto, then we have no hope of breaking the curse. Between the wall and the king’s defenses, Noct is as safe as he possibly can be for the moment. I don’t like it either, but right now, Prompto needs to be our immediate concern.”

If that was meant to calm him, then it failed miserably. Gladio’s palms were burning where his fingernails cut into the skin, and it was with outright contempt that he spat, “So, you’re sayin’ we abandon Noct.”

The vicious surge of satisfaction he got when Ignis’s collected façade finally broke probably shouldn’t have pleased him so much, but at the moment, Gladio couldn’t care less. Let him feel the same frustration; let him understand at least a little of what was going through Gladio’s head right now. He wasn’t so blinded by his fury that he believed Ignis didn’t care, that he wasn’t feeling just as torn, but it was about damn time he got off his high horse and realized that hiding behind that wall of professionalism wasn’t helping anybody.

“What I am _saying_ is that we need to think long-term,” he hissed through gritted teeth. In one swift motion, he waved the photograph in front of Gladio’s face before slamming it down on the table hard enough to make Prompto’s camera shake. “What I am _saying_ is that I want to return to Noct just as much as you, yet I understand that that is _not_ in his best interests. _That_ is our duty—to do what we must so that he might live another day, even if it is undesirable. Returning to Insomnia would do nothing more than put _your_ mind at ease.”

“You callin’ me selfish?” demanded Gladio, practically in Ignis’s face although he had no memory of having approached him. To his credit, the latter didn’t even flinch.

“What would Noct say if he knew we left Prompto to whatever fate the empire might devise for him? What would _he_ say if he could hear you now?”

That brought Gladio up short. All the words he’d been prepared to throw right back at Ignis dried up in his throat, rendering him speechless. What would Noct say? Well, he didn’t have to think too hard about that: Noct would tell him that they needed to rescue Prompto. Noct would tell him that he was being stupid and stubborn and all the other things he’d muttered when Gladio relentlessly tried to teach him how to defend himself. If he could hear them now, Gladio knew that he would say…exactly what Ignis was.

And that hurt more than he could bear.

With that realization, all the bitter rage that had exploded mere moments ago dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving Gladio demoralized and defeated in its wake. Noct was already ashamed of him, as a friend and a Shield and everything in between; the disappointment and pain that had stared back at him from those blue eyes of his were seared into his memory. The thought of letting him down even more?

No, Ignis was right. Noct was as safe as he could be, given the circumstances. He had the wall, the Crownsguard, the Kingsglaive—Cor and his dad were there, as was Nyx. That wasn’t even mentioning that King Regis would die before anything else happened to his son. Spies of the enemy… They didn’t stand a chance against that sort of resolve. If the only advantage their opposition had going for them was that Noct was vulnerable in this state, that he couldn’t protect himself, then there was just one thing that Gladio and Ignis could do.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Ignis’s taut expression eased into something more understanding and less severe when he said, “We have a job to do. We swore an oath to stand with Noct and keep him safe. Whatever it takes, we _will_ protect him.”

“Yeah,” murmured Gladio, almost unable to bear the earnest gleam in his eyes. “We will.”

Ignis’s smile was thin, but it was there. Nodding his head in acknowledgement, he glanced back at the photo and sighed, “First things first. We need to locate Prompto.”

“Right…”

“At least we have some idea of where we can find him.”

Humming in thought, Gladio pushed aside his lingering reservations and muttered, “Why would Ardyn take ‘im in the first place?”

“Perhaps it’s a sign that we’re on the right track,” guessed Ignis with a one-shouldered shrug. “Prompto would be all but useless to him unless he does, in fact, have the information we need.”

“Which means this whole thing is probably a trap.”

“It is undoubtedly a trap.”

“But you wanna go anyway.”

Ignis’s answering smirk was bordering on creepy, Gladio had to admit; he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him more than a little uneasy. After all, people always said _he_ was the tough one, but that was just the muscles. For all that he appeared to be the golden boy, the one who could do no wrong, Ignis was a force to be reckoned with when you pissed him off. And right now? That description didn’t even begin to cover it.

“Some traps,” he mused, taking up the picture once more, “are meant to be walked into.”

 

***

 

_Darkness._

_It was everywhere. Above, below, all around—it didn’t matter where he turned. He’d find it regardless._

_All he knew was darkness. All that existed were shadows, ebbing and flowing in this endless abyss. There was no here, no there, no before, no after. Just shadows. They spoke to him in so many voices, some familiar and others entirely foreign. It was deafening—so much noise—so much_ pain _—_

_“Where is my son?”_

_“We already tried that. Got any better ideas?”_

_“Regis, stop.”_

_“He has…what is the phrase? Found a place where he_ belongs _.”_

_“So, you did nothin’.”_

_“He is cold, Clarus.”_

_“You_ will _tell me where he is.”_

_He curled in on himself, wrapping his arms around his head and desperately trying to drown out the din so that he might sink back into the darkness and lose himself to the immeasurable march of time. It was peaceful there—he didn’t have to think, to feel, to remember. It wouldn’t hurt anymore, not the way each voice seemed to stab him in the chest until he could hardly breathe with the agony of their torment. He didn’t know who or where they were—he couldn’t place their cadences or their names—but he felt their pain as though it was his own. It echoed through the void, surrounding him, cradling him in a bed of nails when he just wanted to sleep…_

_But every time he thought he would, every time the tide attempted to pull him under once again, something dragged him right back to the surface so that he could endure awareness for a while longer. It was warm and soft, in stark contrast to his surroundings. When it brushed against his arm or curled up beside his chest, he stopped feeling so empty inside. He couldn’t see what it was; it was impossible to even tell whether his eyes were open or closed. All he knew was that he yearned for that silent company almost as much as he wished for oblivion._

_And in the moments before it vanished, leaving him wondering if it had been real to begin with, he wordlessly begged it not to go. He mutely implored it not to take away that warmth._

_That comfort._

_That subtle glow that seemed to speak words of reassurance that never quite reached his ears._

_All but one. One floated to him, a mere whisper nearly hidden underneath the cacophony of sound that barraged him from every direction before he slipped away again. One touched his dwindling consciousness, caressing his senses and making the searing pain in his chest a bit easier to bear._

_One unfamiliar voice, one word that he could never understand._

_“Noctis.”_


	24. Guiding Lights

“Do you have _any_ idea of the dangers you face gallivanting off to the empire?” demanded Master Clarus, his disdain falling dangerously close to outright fury. “Not to mention the potential this provides for an international incident that we _cannot_ currently afford?”

Ignis grimaced. Admittedly, he had not expected a particularly positive reaction when he reported in; that was why he had waited until they were too far from Insomnia for Cor to hunt them down. Even so, he was somewhat surprised at the vehemence with which the king’s Shield was presently dressing him down. They had, after all, been dispatched for the sole purpose of discovering the key to waking Noct. They _had_ , after all, been granted permission to do whatever it took to return to Insomnia with the solution to their problems in hand. Far be it from Ignis to put words in his monarch’s mouth, but he had assumed that meant he was to do _whatever it took_ , not simply whatever it took short of—as Master Clarus so elegantly phrased it— _gallivanting off to the empire_.

The vindication that the king’s approval lent him gave Ignis the courage to acknowledge, “We are both aware of the risks.”

“Yet you have still chosen to flout the embargo in pursuit of this boy?”

“It was my understanding that the embargo refers to travel with specific regard to tourism and monetary business ventures,” Ignis pointed out, already knowing that his appeal to reason would be of no help here. Still, he had come this far, so he felt no compunction in adding, “Gladio and I hardly intend to make any purchases whilst we are in imperial territory.”

Whether it was his use of subtle sarcasm in light of the circumstances or Master Clarus’s obvious disagreement, the latter did not immediately comment. Technically, Ignis was not wrong: he knew the letter of each law backwards, forwards, and in approximately three different languages. (Four, if one counted the ancient dialect of Solheim that had long since fallen into disuse.) His logic regarding the tenets of the embargo were sound, albeit not precisely adherent to current policy. On paper, Lucians were not allowed to do business with imperial parties. In reality, there was no arguing that it was a total ban. For the sake of maintaining diplomatic relations—which was to say, _not_ maintaining diplomatic relations while simultaneously not engaging in open warfare—no one crossed the border without direct orders from the king. More often than not, the enemy’s envoys came to them; it was a rarity that Lucian officials visited Niflheim, and the empire had never forced their hand.

For two representatives to be on their way to the imperial capital now, especially representatives of such a lofty standing in the Lucian government, was to court disaster by every definition.

But they had to. For Prompto. For _Noct_.

There was no escaping this, and unless Ignis was very much mistaken, he did not believe Ardyn wanted them to. He had no reason to bring them all the way to Niflheim to spark a war with Lucis, but he had never been one for doing things the easy way, either. This was exactly the sort of game he was likely to play when he knew they had little choice but to follow the trail of breadcrumbs he left before their feet. Whether it would lead them over a cliff was yet to be seen.

So long as Noct was awake and whole at the bottom of the ravine, however, Ignis could not care less about the consequences for himself. Such was the nature of his position—such was the bond of his friendship.

With that thought in mind, Ignis did not wait for Master Clarus to formulate a response before he briskly continued, “As it stands, Prompto appears to be the key to breaking the curse. Whatever he knows has gotten him into some sort of trouble, and we need to find him before Ardyn disposes of him and any information he has is lost. We hadn’t the time to ask permission.”

Nor would they. As the saying went, there were occasions when it was more beneficial to beg for forgiveness than plead for permission. It was not often that Ignis applied it to his own actions, particularly when they related to his duties as chamberlain and advisor to the crown prince of Lucis, but he supposed in this instance that it was for the best.

Master Clarus, on the other hand, was understandably unused to dissention in the ranks, reasons notwithstanding. Therefore, Ignis could not fault him for astutely retorting, “You hadn’t the _inclination_ to ask for permission.”

“Not in the slightest,” confirmed Ignis without hesitation. It was an exercise in futility to hide such things from Master Clarus when the latter had known him since he was born. Besides, despite the extensive journey ahead of them, Ignis also had little inclination to prolong the conversation any more than absolutely necessary. There were other matters that required their attention, namely planning their next move.

That consideration was apparently not far from Master Clarus’s mind either. Rather than berate Ignis further for his insubordination (he was likely reserving punishment for their return to Insomnia), the king’s Shield switched tacks with almost unnerving speed.

“And what is your intent once you arrive? It is not a simple matter of walking into the imperial capital and knocking on the door to Zegnautus.”

Ah, this was the part that Ignis had been dreading even more than merely informing Master Clarus that they were venturing into Niflheim without authorization. What with their hasty departure and the undefined variables they were working around, their path had been improvised ever since they left Hammerhead. Limited options tended to make one rather inventive, which was certainly saying something given the situation. While their ingenuity might have earned them commendations in different circumstances, however, Ignis could not fool himself into believing that the king’s Shield would be any more pleased with their ultimate decision than he was with the rest. It would have been one thing to claim that they were finding their own way through imperial territory, even that they were enlisting the assistance of a Lucian officer in an official capacity.

It was quite another to admit that they were using civilian transport for what was undoubtedly an illegal venture, regardless of how well he was able to cite protocol to avoid admitting it.

“We were able to secure passage aboard a trustworthy vessel,” he hedged in a useless attempt at buying whatever time he could. The pointed silence on the other end of the line was answer enough.

“What trustworthy vessel?” inquired the king’s Shield suspiciously.

Frowning in displeasure, Ignis glanced at their captain. “It came highly recommended from Master Cid.”

If he thought that the honorific would somehow lend Noct’s former guardian more credence, he was sorely mistaken. There was a pregnant pause, then Master Clarus hissed, “You dragged a _civilian_ into this venture?”

“Actually,” Ignis hesitantly admitted, lowering his voice, “one could argue that he is quite pleased to be along for the ride.”

That was putting it mildly indeed. Dino Ghiranze was not the first person Ignis would have considered for this journey—nor the second. Or third. It was not all attributed to their variant personalities, although that certainly played a large role in Ignis’s decision to remain as far from Dino as possible for the duration of their voyage. No, there were greater concerns where their unlikely guest was involved, so great that he had almost turned down the offer when Cid initially suggested it.

When they were already treading a fine line between survival and ruin, it was hardly the time to go around trusting _reporters_.

That bit of information was not something that would be of use to Master Clarus, so Ignis decided to keep it to himself for now. As soon as all this was over, as soon as Noct was awake and they were able to put this endeavor behind them, he would fully disclose the identity of their benefactor to the king and his Shield.

Possibly.

For now, it was difficult enough to endure the scathing silence on the other end, which was followed by a terse, “You have taken a great many liberties, Ignis. Involving civilians puts them at risk, as well as yourselves.”

“He will not be accompanying us into the empire,” Ignis assured him, although he need not have bothered for all that Master Clarus heeded his words.

“The mere _knowledge_ of your purpose is enough to compromise the entire mission.”

“That is why we have told him as little as possible.”

“Elaborate.”

“As far as he is concerned, our only purpose is to enter Niflheim without alerting the enemy to our movements. Master Cid was quite clear that he was not to ask any questions and that we will answer none.”

There was a heavy sigh across the line before he replied, “A small comfort when you are walking headlong into the unknown.”

Well, technically they were _sailing_ there, but Ignis thought it would be crass of him to make that distinction given the serious nature of the conversation. Still, how _was_ he to respond? They could not turn back now—to do so would mean abandoning Prompto to certain death, perhaps even worse. Any insight he could offer them would be lost, and with it, their hopes of waking Noct. Yes, this road was a dangerous one; it was riddled with perils that they simultaneously could and could not predict. That was neither here nor there. Was it not better to die in pursuit of a solution? Was it not better to perish in a place where they were at least attempting to fix what had been broken?

Was it not better to prove their loyalty to Noct in all ways with this ultimate, perhaps final sacrifice?

None of that would soften Master Clarus’s disdain, not even when he had seen what Noct’s condition did to King Regis. His position was different; his grief was not like their own. If it were the king, Ignis knew that his Shield would stop at nothing to rescue him, whether it meant tearing down the doors of Zegnautus with his bare hands or not. (He was quite similar to Gladio in that regard, not that either of them would admit it.) Ignis did not mean to imply that he couldn’t understand that they would do the same for Noct—that they _were_ doing it even as they spoke. It was simply that he was removed from this choice to some degree. Regardless of his loyalty to King Regis and his determination to see this matter resolved, he was still adhering to the rules that dictated how their chain of command operated. It was impossible to begrudge him that bit of stability, especially when he was in a place where he could enjoy it.

They were not so fortunate. As far as Ignis was concerned, there _was_ no chain of command without his prince, just as so many things had been lost the instant they realized he was missing. There was only this moment and whatever planning they could do before they inevitably had to adapt to changing circumstances.

The chain of command was for those tasked with Noct’s protection while they were away. Let them take orders from the marshal and the king’s Shield. They were the most knowledgeable and capable to defend the Citadel, so it was only fitting that their word was law. Within the Crown City, order was key, and Ignis would never fault them for expecting obedience from their subordinates.

Here, many miles from home and desperate for answers, Ignis would heed only that which would bring their prince and friend back to them—whatever it took.

He could not voice such an argument to Master Clarus, not when he eventually had to return to the Citadel and trust that his position would be waiting for him when all this was over. Wherever this road led them, be it to an unmarked grave in a land where they were not welcome or a victorious celebration followed by a swift court martial, Ignis could not burn this last bridge. If he did, he would be of no use to Noct, and all their mingled hope and despair would come to naught if he could not remain by his side when he awoke.

It was good, then, that Ignis was adept at swallowing emotion and exuding only professionalism when necessity required it. From the time he was small, he had learned that grief and the emotions it incited were not to be tolerated in formal interactions; they clouded the mind and rendered reason worthless. The time for mourning had passed anyway, and Ignis was not allowing it to drive him into enemy hands the way Master Clarus seemed to think. No, he was allowing his grief to propel him forward, to provide for him some motivation for doing what he knew to be right even if it was against all the protocols he had ever memorized. Some things were more important, and his instructors had also taught him that there would be moments when it was impossible to act without sidestepping a few obstacles. That, however, was diplomacy. There was simply no putting that into words when he was speaking with a man for whom protocol was instrumental to successful operations.

Fortunately, he did not need to formulate a response at all. A low murmur sounded in his ear, barely audible over the crash of the waves and the roar of the engine behind him. The interference was not enough to hide the hushed whispers on the other end, nor the rustling that indicated the phone was passing hands. Ignis did not need to ask what had happened, although his surprise was great when the king addressed him quietly.

“You place a great burden on those who would bear with you,” he observed, the exhaustion in his tone making the corners of Ignis’s mouth turn down in concern.

“You sound as though you have not slept, Majesty,” was his tentative reply. If this were one of the occasions when Noct had called him in the middle of the night, seeking comfort from some nightmare or other, Ignis would have rebuked him gently for not at least trying to go back to sleep. After all, fear of the dark—however frequently he insisted that he felt nothing of the sort—would do him no good. Over time, he had grown out of it on his own, and their conversations had shifted from reassurance to grudging gaming. (Well, that was what Ignis attempted to tell himself, particularly in moments when he involuntarily missed their late-night entertainment.)

This was not his friend, though. This was his king, and he highly doubted he would find it as benign for Ignis to insist that he retire for the evening the way he would have if it were Noct. He had his Shield for that, and it appeared that Master Clarus could use someone to occupy his time when Ignis was unwilling to turn their vessel around and play by the rules.

King Regis had always been too kind to take offense to Ignis’s reflexes, so there was no anger to be found when he wryly retorted, “I could say the same for yourself. Wandering Eos as you are, I must wonder whether you and Gladiolus have taken any rest.”

“With all due respect, Majesty, the success of our mission relies on haste.”

“I do not doubt it. That said, I suppose there is little use in ordering you to return to Insomnia,” the king sighed. There was a knowing quality to his statement that gave Ignis the distinct impression that he would not have done so regardless.

What he wanted to say in response was that they were presently on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a captain that Gladio would have very much liked to strangle if he weren’t so instrumental to their rather unfinished plans. If he were still speaking with Master Clarus, he might have been sorely tempted to do so. In this instance, however, he thought it best not to share those thoughts. After all, the king had plenty to consider already without the added weight of their specific circumstances on his mind.

So, erring towards the side of safety, Ignis instead remarked, “You are my king. As such, we are compelled to do as you see fit.”

 _However distasteful we might find it_ , he added to himself.  

If such things were possible, Ignis would have thought that he’d voiced his beliefs aloud. There was a long pause, and for a brief instant, he wondered if they had finally strayed far enough from the Lucian coast that he’d lost his signal. Then the king spoke again, albeit so quietly that he had to strain to hear him.

“I hope that you realize how grateful I am to you both. This is no small feat you are embarking on, and the risks are unspeakably severe.”

“There is no risk too great where His Highness is concerned,” Ignis immediately countered, bowing his head in spite of the fact that too many miles stood between them for it to be seen.

“I quite agree,” he murmured, a heartbreaking distance in his voice. The mental image it conjured was startling: a haunted monarch keeping watch over his only child, waiting for the worst when his retainers could not deliver results.

_No._

That would not happen. Whether they must travel to the shores of the empire’s territory, the divine home of the Astrals, or the depths of Hell itself, they _would_ save Noct. They would not leave him to this fate, to languish for years until a frail body without hope for nourishment was all that remained—until even that was not enough and death finally welcomed Noct into its embrace. That was not his destiny. They would not allow it to be.

It was not his place to ease the king’s mind when he had little to offer but promises he could not guarantee, yet Ignis cleared his throat and assured him, “If there is any way forward, we will find it.”

That seemed to snap King Regis out of whatever melancholy reverie he’d fallen into, and there was renewed strength more characteristic of his monarch when he cautioned, “The way may be barred by many obstacles. It is unlikely that you will pass through the empire unhindered.”

“Indeed,” agreed Ignis, “but we have hope in one thing.”

“And what might that be?”

“The trap has been set. Ardyn abducted Prompto and left behind a clue for a reason. Whatever his motives, he wants us in Niflheim. I doubt that he will make the journey more difficult than necessary.”

King Regis hummed pensively a moment before suggesting, “Your arrival might indeed be easier than anticipated. It is your departure that concerns me.”

“That, in part, is why I called,” Ignis admitted, hating that he had to ask even when the words had not yet left his mouth. “I recognize that our intelligence regarding Gralea are limited. However, if there is anything that might be of use in strategizing our retreat—”

“You shall have it,” interjected the king before he had a chance to finish, much to his relief. “I cannot promise that there will be a great deal of value to you, but whatever we have, I will ensure it is sent along.”

“Your assistance is appreciated, Your Majesty.”

“Surely you did not believe I would leave you without aid?” he scoffed. Ignis smiled slightly to hear it: asking such a favor had left him concerned that he might be requesting too much, especially if it meant the king might be removed even temporarily from Noct’s side.

He hardly wanted to remind King Regis of his commitment, however, so Ignis forced himself to halfheartedly joke, “Well, I had hoped we did not disappoint Master Clarus too much.”

In light of the circumstances, there were few things that Ignis could be certain of. Their very survival was at stake, not to mention that of their kingdom. What he had been able to say with complete and utter surety was that the king would find no humor or light until his son was awake and by his side once more.

He was wrong.

King Regis’s chuckle shocked him into silence. No, it was not as deep and genuine as Ignis knew it could be, but it was there nonetheless. For now, he supposed that was better than the alternative. If they did not find something to lighten the mood in these dark times… Well, he had great confidence in his own sanity, but Ignis would be lying if he said he did not fear somewhat for those around him.

The sudden burst of positivity could not last, though, and it was far too soon when the king’s humor dwindled. For a moment, Ignis was at a loss. They had said all they needed to, and there was still much to be done before they reached the distant shores of their destination. Even so, he could sense the lonely suffering on the other end of the line almost as deeply as his own. In a sense, a bond had been forged between everyone with ties to Noct. Be they king or commoner, retainer or Glaive, they all knew the same pain: their hearts ached not only from their failure, but from the familiar smile and easy friendship they had lost as a result. It brought them together in ways that Ignis never would have predicted let alone believed possible.

Perhaps, then, not _all_ had been said.

“We will do everything in our power to return victorious, Your Grace,” he swore, injecting as much confidence into his tone as possible. He could not promise success; he could not even promise that they would return at all. This, however, was one thing he _could_ offer to his monarch, meager as it was in comparison to something more tangible.

It was all the same to King Regis, whose gratitude was palpable when he replied, “I doubt that there are two candidates more fit for the task. Take care on the long road.”

_A long road indeed._

Ignis did not allow his uncertainty to color his demeanor as he offered one final farewell and disconnected the call, slipping his phone into his pocket with a sigh. When they set out from the Citadel nearly two days ago, they hadn’t prepared for something like this. All they’d known was that they needed to wake Noct; ventures to the empire had not factored into the equation. Now that they were on their way with no chance of turning back until they met with either victory or defeat, Ignis had to tamp down a rising sensation of unease. Where they were going, there would be no aid or allies. They would not have the safety net that King Regis had provided in the past, even when they had ventured outside the Crown City to see Noct. Master Clarus was not wrong: this might very well be a fool’s errand that would end in only more tragedy. After all, they had no guarantee that Prompto was still alive. They could infiltrate the Keep, locate their friend, and discover that they were to meet the same fate. Noct could sleep forever because Ignis had the brilliant idea to wander even further from Insomnia rather than attempting to solve this riddle without Prompto’s help.

But a treacherous little voice in his head that spoke with _emotion_ rather than _logic_ reminded him that they had already betrayed Noct so thoroughly, hurt him so much… Could they really live with themselves if they abandoned Prompto to the empire’s mercy (or lack thereof) all to preserve their own safety and their prince’s?

 _He would never forgive us_ , Ignis reminded himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

Yes, this could be a fool’s errand. Yes, they should have sought reinforcements before plunging headlong into the unknown.

But it was for Noct, and that was all that mattered.

“We all good?”

Gladio’s shockingly tentative question drew Ignis from his thoughts, and he instantly collected himself before turning around to face him. He could not show weakness, not now. If there was one thing that the empire had taught him over the years, it was that there was little room for weakness in Niflheim. Those that exhibited too much were tossed to the wolves like so much refuse. So, shoulders straight and regrets firmly rooted back in Lucis, Ignis faced Gladio with his head held high.

“With the exception of your father’s desire to send us both back to training, yes,” he retorted easily in spite of the rather glaring possibility that that _could_ happen.

Gladio was characteristically unconcerned, barking a laugh. “Yeah, he’ll get over it. Got enough to worry about back at the Citadel.”

Nodding, Ignis somberly agreed, “It will only get worse if Ardyn attacks in our absence.”

All of the humor leached out of Gladio’s face at that, and he folded his arms with a grim frown as he turned to stare at the water rather than Ignis.

“We’d better hope the Messenger knew what she was doing with that wall,” he grumbled after a moment, the stiffness in his shoulders belying the evenness of his tone. “Shit like that ain’t stopped ‘im before."

“No, but it might at least buy us some time,” observed Ignis, although he couldn’t claim to have much more confidence than Gladio.

It was not that he didn’t believe Gentiana was a capable mage—far from it. Regardless, there was no arguing that Ardyn had become something _more_ than that, something that no one ever would have thought possible. In all his studies over the years, in the hours he’d spent scouring every book in the Citadel’s libraries for information about Ardyn that might allow them to end him before he had a chance to find Noct, there had been nothing of use. No creature like him had existed in the past, and given the aid they were receiving from the Six, Ignis doubted another would. Well, if they were fortunate, at least.

That thought couldn’t exactly be considered comforting, not when they still had the mage in question to deal with, so Ignis did not bother mentioning it and merely listened as Gladio continued, “Speakin’ of time, it’s about time we got a move on and figured out how the hell we’re gonna do this.”

“Indeed. The more we prepare in advance, the more likely it is that we can proceed with haste.”

Snorting, Gladio countered, “We’ll need to pick up a couple hours somewhere. It’s not like this boat’s gonna get us all the way into Gralea.”

“Quite right…” Ignis trailed off with a frown, glancing over at where Dino was leisurely lounging in his seat at the helm. If he didn’t know any better, Ignis would have thought this was a pleasure cruise for as relaxed as he seemed under the circumstances. Were all reporters so difficult to ruffle, or was it just this one?

Either way, his relative calm would serve their purposes well enough. They needed information and whatever intelligence they could acquire. Cid had said that Dino was one of the most knowledgeable travelers in Lucis, having spoken with him on numerous occasions when he passed through the outpost on one venture or another. Unless he was either very much mistaken or exaggerating, both of which Ignis doubted, then Dino might just have a few answers that could be of use to them.

He simply needed to extract them without negating everything he’d told Master Clarus about keeping civilians out of this.

“Dino,” he called as he strode over to his perch. “A moment?”

Their makeshift captain glanced lazily over his shoulder, waving a hand as he inquired, “Whatcha need?”

Ignis carefully mulled over his words a moment before elaborating, “As grateful as we are to you for the favor, you’ve yet to indicate where exactly we will be making landfall.”

“Say no more,” Dino replied with an easy grin. “This baby’s gonna drop us off at the port in Succarpe. You’re not gonna find any other way into the empire ‘less you go through there.”

That much, Ignis could have deduced for himself. Not all the lands that now belonged to the empire always had, and their maps of everything outside of Gralea were fairly extensive. Succarpe was not known to be the most forgiving region, however, as it was little more than a wasteland of deserts and mines. To Ignis’s knowledge, there wasn’t even much to see until one reached Cartanica, and that was a ways inland. There was no chance that they would be able to sail into civilization, not if they were landing in the outermost region of imperial territory.

“Even so, we have no further method of transportation available to us,” he hinted, allowing himself merely a perplexed frown rather than the disdainful glare he would have liked to level at Dino. The way the latter refused to rise to the bait grated on his nerves, and he was almost inordinately relieved when Gladio stepped in with his arms still folded and his expression intimidatingly set. It was not frequently the case that Ignis approved of such methods, but at the moment, they did not have time to dawdle in gathering information.

“Ain’t like we got wings,” he pointed out impatiently. “The deal was that you get us into Gralea, not Succarpe.”

Scoffing, Dino raised his hands in surrender and exclaimed, “Whoa, whoa, whoa! This reporter’s got integrity. If I wanted to scam you, I would’a taken the cash and been on my way. Ya follow me?”

“Unfortunately,” murmured Ignis. If Dino recognized his exasperated irritation, he wisely did not comment on it.

“I said you’d get a one-way ticket to Gralea, and I’m a man of my word.”

“Then give us the word. How’re we gettin’ there?” deadpanned Gladio.

Dino shrugged, staring at them as though they had both missed something particularly obvious during the course of their negotiations. “It’s easy. I know a guy.”

It took a great deal of effort not to congratulate him on such a momentous achievement. After all, at the rate they were going, Ignis was beginning to wonder whether or not he had any friends whatsoever. A man of his so-called _integrity_ should undoubtedly have had more pressing engagements than ferrying two mysterious characters into enemy waters without explanation—almost, as it happened, without pay. Cid had been adamant that Dino owed him a favor when they’d returned to the garage and informed him of Prompto’s fate; it was his belief that the reporter, in spite of his rather shady demeanor, could be trusted not to expect more than he was offered. Considering their inability to provide many details, Ignis had not been able to expend much in the way of compensation besides what little he had brought with him. If he did, it would have aroused suspicion that their stations were higher than Cid had led Dino to believe over the phone. _Two of my nephew’s friends_ , he’d called them, and the reporter had not inferred any more than that. Of course, Ignis had been understandably concerned at how he would react to the weapons they brought with them when they boarded, but he had not said a word about it. At the time, he had counted it as a blessing that Cid had been both willing and able to contact such a seemingly capable and simpleminded candidate.

Now that they were learning a bit more about him, however, Ignis was beginning to think that his confidence had been misplaced.

Gladio must have felt the same, because he glared down at Dino as if he was the most repugnant slug in existence when he rejoined, “ _You know a guy_? What kinda guy we talkin’ about?”

“The kinda guy that can get you two onto the train to Gralea,” lilted Dino with a positively _slimy_ smirk. That and his explanation did nothing to ease the unsettling sensation in Ignis’s stomach.

“And you can guarantee that this contact of yours will be cooperative?” he asked skeptically.

The offended expression he received in return would have been convincing if not for his conviction that Dino was not capable of taking offense to anything. His suspicions were all but confirmed when the reporter smugly retorted, “My good man, all you gotta do is tell ‘im that Dino sentcha, and you’re as good as in the seat of imperial power—capisce?”

“ _Not_ capisce,” grumbled Gladio. “How do we know you’re not tuggin’ our chains here?”

That, it seemed, was what finally cut through Dino’s collected exterior. Ignis spied his brief flash of annoyance before the reporter managed to quash it, a twinge of satisfaction making his lips twitch in something like humor. Perhaps it was a cruel notion, but Ignis thought that if they were going to suffer all the way to Niflheim, then their captain might as well join them. He deserved no less for the vague manner in which he had handled the entire situation, their own desperation notwithstanding.

“Sheesh, who d’ya think you’re talkin’ to, here?” demanded Dino indignantly, dropping his feet to the deck and leaning towards them with true purpose. “Maybe you two haven’t heard’a me up in the Crown City, but I’m here to tell you, I’m nothin’ if not reliable.”

For a fleeting instant, Ignis could not breathe. Not once had they mentioned where they were from. Even Cid, for as strongly as the news of Prompto’s disappearance had spurred him into action, hadn’t mentioned more than the bare necessities. How, then, did he know that they hailed from Insomnia?

He could have written it off as insight. The man was a reporter; it was his job to make deductions that others would not be capable of. The knowing grin Dino aimed at them both, however, spoke volumes of information he could not have gotten from mere assumption long before he opened his mouth.

“Couple’a big wigs from the Citadel like yourselves, driving around Lucis in your fancy car? Surely you didn’t think it’d go unnoticed? At least not by _this_ reporter.”

The look Gladio shot him was not panicked, but Ignis could tell that he was moments away from tossing Dino overboard and commandeering the vessel for the rest of the journey to Niflheim. That more than anything else loosened his tongue to respond—they had enough trouble on their hands without adding defensive manslaughter.

“Rather astute for a simple reporter,” he noted. Lying was unwise when he knew he would not be believed to begin with. For now, his goal had to be damage control.

Fortunately, Dino was easily distracted when his competency was called into question, however mildly.

“ _Simple reporter_?” he exclaimed, leaning back in his chair as though Ignis had physically attacked him. “I’ll have you know, you’re sailing with the _best_ reporter this side’a Lestallum!”

Neither of them said a word. Ignis was not familiar enough with Dino’s work to gauge whether or not he was as talented as he claimed, but he had no doubt that he could win awards for the most obnoxious reporter, to be sure.

Sensing their skepticism, he puffed up importantly and bragged, “The next time you’re in Altissia, try askin’ the First Secretary how her husband’s doing.”

“The First Secretary doesn’t _have_ a husband,” murmured Gladio slowly, his eyebrows contracting in confusion. That only made Dino’s smirk widen.

“That’s what _you_ think.”

“You’re shittin’ us.”

“I shit you not. And if you think _that’s_ a good one, just try askin’ the locals where their king is on your way through Tenebrae.”

Ignis perked up at that, exchanging a wary glance with Gladio before inquiring with careful disinterest, “Is the king away from the castle, then?”

Perhaps he didn’t give Dino the credit he was due. The reporter eyed him with a perceptive grin that Ignis did not care for _at all_ as he replied with a sweeping gesture, “According to my sources, his Royal Majesty Ravus Nox Fleuret vacated his throne a few days ago. Nobody knows where he went, but the way I see things, it’s gotta be important.”

That much was quite true: with the empire’s chokehold on the homeland of the Oracle, it was seldom that its king ventured outside Tenebrae’s borders. In fact, the last time that Ignis could remember was when he had come to the Citadel a few years prior. Since then, news from their former ally had been reduced to a trickle, and it was only the occasional rumor that reached their ears about Ravus’s comings and goings.

Which was why Ignis found it interesting that the emperor had let his dog off its leash at such an inopportune moment.

_What a fascinating coincidence._

Their silence must have spoken for them, because when Dino continued, it was with the air of someone who was confident that he had won a particularly grueling battle. In this case, Ignis could not say that he was wrong.

“How’s _that_ for a scoop?”

Gladio was the one who recovered first, his expression stormy as he observed, “Sounds like you’re not so good at minding your own damn business.”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be doin’ my job.” Dino waved him off dismissively, although Ignis knew now that he was not as dull-witted as he seemed. If he were, he would not have endeavored to put their minds—and Gladio’s flexed muscles—at ease when he continued, “Lucky for you, this reporter isn’t the type to go spilling all his secrets. If you wanna remain incognito, I’ll respect your wish.”

“In exchange for…?”

“Not a thing.”

Ignis quirked an eyebrow incredulously. “You have no price for your silence? That seems rather unlike someone in your profession.”

Dino’s shrug was casual, but there was a shrewd gleam in his eyes as he replied, “All I ask is that you remember your pal Dino when you head back to the Citadel, if you catch my drift.”

Ah, so that was what he was after. Ignis supposed that did not come as much of a shock: few people were truly so benevolent as to go out of their way without expecting something in return. Cid’s assurances that he had done Dino enough favors to pay their passage might well have been true, yet someone in the latter’s position was always in the market for an advantage that others might not have. From the sound of it, he might even be worth the effort of discussing such a possibility with King Regis.

If they returned, which was quite uncertain at the moment. Ignis logged the thought away for later—they had more important matters to occupy their time than Dino’s ambitious aspirations.

“Am I correct in assuming that your contact is not enlightened as to our identities?”

Rolling his eyes, Dino snorted, “Trust me, this guy isn’t exactly the brightest of the bunch. You two’ll be safe from Succarpe to the capital. After that, though, you’re on your own.”

“Yeah, that we knew,” muttered Gladio, turning on his heel and stomping towards the back of the ship.

Ignis watched him go without immediate comment, already knowing how he felt. It was torture, understanding what they were walking into and realizing that they had no control over the situation. Even if Dino could secure their spots aboard the train to Gralea, there was no telling what would happen when they arrived, and that was not mentioning the fact that they still had no way into the Keep itself. It was likely that that would not be a problem, not when Ardyn clearly wanted them to make it that far, but Ignis did not like having to guess. Dino’s reassurances could only take them so far. Beyond that, there was only luck—and luck had not been on their side lately.

Sighing deeply, Ignis murmured a reluctant word of thanks to Dino before following Gladio’s lead. The boat was a sizable yacht, one whose origins he would have liked to know; although it was more elaborate than what he could have imagined for a voyage of this nature, their captain had simply said it was all he could manage on such short notice. As long as it got them to their destination, Ignis couldn’t care less. A rowboat would have sufficed if absolutely necessary. Nevertheless, it was a relief to know that they could put some distance between themselves and Dino. This wasn’t a conversation that he would be a welcome part of, after all.

“You think he’s on the level?” Gladio murmured as soon as Ignis was within earshot, the engine drowning out the sounds of their voices.

Humming noncommittally, Ignis ventured, “He has yet to give us reason _not_ to trust him. If nothing else, I trust Cid’s judgment.”

“He’s been wrong before.”

“We all have.”

Gladio had nothing to say to his sharp retort, and Ignis immediately regretted his tone. Now wasn’t the time for arguments, just as they had needed to put their differing opinions behind them in Hammerhead. Whether they trusted Dino or not was irrelevant: he was the only chance they had of reaching the empire in one piece, so they had little choice but to go along with whatever he told them to do for now. They were not unarmed; if anything, they had perhaps come too well equipped. Smuggling a greatsword and his own daggers past customs would be no easy feat, especially when they needed to maintain as low a profile as possible all the while. This was their opportunity to plan, to prepare, to focus on the trials that lay ahead—not bicker over things they could not change.

So, Ignis offered Gladio a conciliatory half-smile and deftly maneuvered around the subject with a quiet, “Regardless of his allegiance, it’s Ravus’s movements that concern me most.”

That was apparently something they could agree on, as Gladio did not hesitate a moment in replying, “If he’s not in Tenebrae anymore, we might have other problems waiting for us in Gralea than just Ardyn.”

“We cannot be certain that he is there,” countered Ignis, although it sounded weak to his own ears. “However, if he is, we will need to be even more cautious. Ardyn isn’t the only one who wouldn’t wish for Noct to wake up.”

Gladio’s grimace fully encompassed Ignis’s own thoughts on the matter, and as they stood staring out at the water in silence, he could not help but feel as though the weight of their plight was crushing them. This new development did not bode well for their mission; they would be foolish not to admit that from the start. Ardyn was enough of a wild card as it was, his motives based in chaos and his actions as unpredictable as his abilities. Adding Ravus into the mix was a recipe for disaster, whether he was waiting for them in Gralea as well or if he sought something elsewhere. Grief turned people into the worst versions of themselves—his instructors had taught him that when he was a child, particularly after they had returned from watching over Noct during his convalescence. Over the last twenty years, Ravus had had plenty of time to let his wounds fester, and Ignis had overheard Master Clarus speaking on more than one occasion of the former’s seemingly endless hatred towards King Regis for the loss of his mother.

What sort of sentiment must he harbor towards _Noct_ for being the catalyst for such a sacrifice? Did Ravus blame him for her death, or did he merely place it at the feet of those who he thought should have been able to stop it?

Ignis nearly laughed at himself when the thought occurred to him: of course he would blame Noct. Maybe he did not consider him the main cause of the former Oracle’s death, but there was no denying that had Noct not been Ardyn’s target, she never would have placed herself in danger. She never would have been felled by a man who should have been her equal, her partner in the divine.

In the mind of one gripped by grief, an infant would be just as guilty as the perpetrator purely by virtue of his existence. Ravus would not be on their side in helping Noct if it came down to it. Of that, Ignis was positive.

But he did not have to be. They did not need the support of Tenebrae’s king when its Oracle had ever been on their side. In spite of her own pain, in spite of her brother’s animosity towards Lucis and its people, she had reached out over the sea to repeatedly aid Noct in his hours of need. She had been a presence in absentia, a guiding light in moments when all hope seemed lost. Whatever obstacle Ravus might present when they reached Gralea, if he was even there, Ignis took comfort from the idea that Lady Lunafreya’s allegiance would be to them.

It was more than he could say for the twinkling lights of Succarpe on the horizon when they approached the port after the sun had set and the world was shrouded in darkness. It was more than he could say for the train tickets they acquired with neither a question nor a second glance at their weapons when they stowed them in the rear freight car where they would pass the last leg of their journey. It was more than he could say for the hours they spent whispering over the maps and briefings that appeared on his phone, care of one Talcott Hester.

It was more than he could say for the sight of Gralea when they peered out of the carriage windows the following morning.

It was more than he could say for the shadow of Zegnautus Keep rising like a black pillar of despair in the center of the city.

 

***

 

_Something cold poked his cheek._

_Whining, he swatted it away and rolled over, curling into a ball against the chill that seeped into his skin from the air around him. He wasn’t allowed to drift back off to sleep, though. That annoying little whatever-it-was prodded him again, more insistently this time, and it didn’t give up just because he whimpered at the interruption. In fact, it seemed to take that as encouragement to try harder._

_Why couldn’t it leave him alone? He didn’t want to get up—he wanted to go back to sleep._

_But sleep was scary, he remembered the moment a warm tuft of fur nuzzled against the side of his face. Sleep was where the monsters lived, and he didn’t like them one bit. They were loud; they hurt him even though he couldn’t see them. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t run from them. When he slept, there was nothing he could do besides wait for them to go away, but they never did. The monsters came back for him every time he thought they were gone, every time he thought that he could let the darkness take him and forget about them for a while. It was like they knew when he started to feel less afraid and came out of the shadows to remind him that they weren’t going away, not ever._

_Never mind. He didn’t want to go to sleep anymore. He wanted to wake up, and all of a sudden, that constant poking at his cheek didn’t seem so annoying._

_Even as he sluggishly resolved to leave his nightmares behind, however, his eyelids refused to cooperate. It was like someone had glued them together every time he tried to open them, each attempt bringing him closer and closer to full consciousness—and total panic._

_He was upright in an instant, hardly registering the soft yelp beside him when he was too busy clawing at his eyes as if that would help. The longer he was trapped in darkness, the sharper and more frantic his breathing became as he clumsily rubbed and scratched and pulled without success. Tears welled up beneath his stubborn eyelids and leaked out at the corners, but it didn’t make a difference. That didn’t dissolve whatever had fused his eyes shut, which did nothing but make him cry harder, hot streaks painting his cheeks as he struggled to breathe around now uncontrollable sobs. This wasn’t right—he couldn’t see—where was he—who else was there—what was happening—_

_As if in answer to his muddled questions, a warm weight settled in his lap, shocking him into stillness. Was it one of the monsters? Was it going to hurt him again? Was it going to drag him back down into the shadows and eat him the way he’d been waiting for all this time?_

_If that was its plan, then it had a funny way of showing it. Instead of tearing at his chest the way they had been while he slept, this monster huddled close and propped what he could only guess were paws against his shoulder. The unsettling sensation of being watched had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, but there was nothing he could do besides sit rigidly and wait for the worst while the creature pressed in closer._

_The second it touched his cheek, he knew that he’d gotten it wrong. Monsters weren’t furry and warm; they didn’t gently nudge at the side of your face and wipe away your tears. Monsters were harsh and ugly, with sharp claws and scaly, slimy skin. They hurt people. They hurt_ him _._

_Whatever was keeping him company didn’t. There was nothing scary about the sound it made in his ear, somewhere between a squeal and a yip rather than a vicious snarl, and the heat it radiated chased away the cold that had made his skin prickle when he woke up. It was like someone had flipped a switch: where fear had gripped him just a few seconds ago, it had drained away and left only curiosity in its wake. Where he had felt numb and distant before, his legs itched where blades of grass were tickling his skin now._

_Where cold and darkness had surrounded him, his eyes miraculously cracked open only to slam shut again when blinding light burned into his senses._

_Throwing his arms over his face, he cringed away from the shocking whiteness. What little he could spy as his eyes adjusted didn’t seem so bad, but it was still way different from what he’d gotten used to. He… Well, he couldn’t really remember much, not how long he’d been trying to sleep or where that place with the monsters had been. All he really knew was that there wasn’t any light there. Here, even with all the fog and no sun shining overhead, it seemed like this was the dream and that at any moment he’d wake up to find himself back where he’d started._

_For a second, he wasn’t sure if he would have been too upset about that. At least he was familiar with the monsters that haunted him in that place, even if they did scare him._

_This wasn’t like that. The emptiness was gone, replaced by a field of blue flowers. They leaned this way and that with an invisible breeze, and he frowned at the way it all seemed to both stretch on forever and end at the wall of mist around him. Shadows of big, crumbling pillars loomed not far off, blurry and indistinct and almost seeming to_ move _the longer he stared at them. They didn’t come closer, though; they didn’t suddenly grow arms and legs to attack him like he half expected—like he_ would _have expected if he were still in the darkness._

 _That didn’t make this place any more comfortable or any less eerie. The_ not _knowing what might be out there was almost as bad as knowing._

_He thought so at first, anyway. Then a nudge to his shoulder reminded him to close his mouth and pay attention to the creature that was currently propped up in his lap, staring at him with its head tilted to the side the way he imagined he must have been looking at their surroundings._

_Blinking, he hiccoughed a little and sniffed back the rest of his tears. “Uh…hi?”_

_Maybe it was stupid to think the…_ thing _would answer him—only little kids thought that—but he was still disappointed when the only response he got was a twitch of its ears and another cold nose to the cheek._

_Okay, maybe that part wasn’t so bad._

_He giggled softly, patting the white animal on its head while avoiding its weird red horn. If it had been eager to wake him up earlier, that was nothing compared to the reaction he got this time: the fox-thing yipped again, hopped up onto his shoulders, and draped itself around his neck with a contented squeal. He couldn’t even complain about its fur tickling him when its presence flooded him with warmth and comfort that he didn’t know he’d been missing until that moment. Having a fuzzy new friend with him, letting it burrow into the side of his neck and tuck its head under his chin… His tears came back at the thought, but they were happy ones. They were ones he didn’t mind._

_His companion, however, didn’t seem to feel the same. It let out a distressed noise when a drop of wetness splashed into its fur and stared up at him with what he would have thought was sadness if…well, if it weren’t an_ animal _. He wasn’t a baby, but that didn’t stop him from gently running his fingers through its fur with a sheepish smile._

_“Sorry…”_

_“It’s all right.”_

_It looked like he would have more to apologize for than making his new friend upset—the sound of another voice had him jumping almost out of his skin, and it would have gone flying if it hadn’t sunk its tiny (and thankfully not intimidating) claws into his shirt. They didn’t hurt him, but he winced anyway at the discovery that it wasn’t just the two of them alone with his own tears._

_There was a little girl standing behind him, watching with a small smile on her face that made his heart leap into his throat. If the monsters lived in the darkness, then he wasn’t surprised that someone like her lived here. She looked like an angel with her white dress and blonde hair, and her blue eyes were crinkled at the corners as she watched him scramble awkwardly to his feet. Unlike the monsters, she didn’t make fun of him for having to wipe away the tears his new friend couldn’t reach or hiccough back his emotions; she didn’t roll her eyes when he slumped his shoulders and bowed his head so his hair would hide his face. She just…stood there. Smiling. She had a pretty smile._

_He could think about that later._

_“Who’re you?” he asked, his voice so soft that he wasn’t sure she heard it until her grin stretched wider._

_“My name is Luna,” she told him. Even her voice was pretty._

Sh, not now!

_“Uh…” He had to stop and clear his throat, his cheeks red with embarrassment when he eventually managed to mumble, “Wh-where are we?”_

_That seemed to stump her. For a second, she—_ Luna _—just stared at him with a tiny crease between her eyebrows. It wasn’t until his living scarf uttered a little whine that she slowly answered, “This…is your mind.”_

 _He blinked at her a few times, totally not understanding. His mind? Did that mean this_ was _just a dream and that he was going to wake up in the shadows again? He didn’t want that—he wanted to stay here! He wasn’t cold here—there were people who didn’t want to hurt him here—this_ couldn’t _be the dream—_

_A new wave of panic swept over him, and for a minute, he thought for sure he was going to start crying again. It was only the unfamiliar weight across his shoulders that kept him from turning around and running away in an attempt to escape ever having to go back to that place. That and the way Luna suddenly appeared before him, her hand coming to rest against his arm. She was warm, just like his new friend, and he sniffled against a fresh batch of tears when she leaned forward so that they were the same height._

_“Don’t be afraid,” she reassured him, her kind smile returning despite how sad her eyes still looked. “You aren’t alone.”_

_No, he wasn’t—not_ now _. When this dream was over, though, he’d go back. He’d be all by himself again, and they wouldn’t be there to comfort him. It would be him and the monsters, just like before. His skin was already crawling at the thought, and it had nothing to do with the tingle he’d gotten when Luna gently patted his forearm._

_But he couldn’t say that stuff to her. She’d think he was stupid—she’d think he was a baby. He had to keep that to himself and maybe the little fox-thing. It wouldn’t tell anybody, right?_

_If this was_ his _dream, then he could make it keep his secret…right?_

_Those weren’t the questions that came out when he opened his mouth. Instead, he whispered, “You’re not real?”_

_It wasn’t funny to him, but Luna looked like she might laugh when she firmly replied, “I_ am _real. We both are.”_

_“Then,” he wondered, glancing between her and the little black eyes that were watching him from his shoulder, “how’d you get here?”_

_“Carbuncle.” When he frowned and shook his head, Luna pointed to the fox-thing and explained, “Carbuncle is the Dream Guardian. He brought me here to see you.”_

_“The…Dream Guardian?”_

_Why did that sound so familiar? He was sure he didn’t know what that was, but… Something was tickling the back of his mind, wanting him to remember even as it danced out of his reach the moment he attempted to grab the memory. Luna didn’t wait for him to figure it out, though, nodding with a pointed look at his new friend._

_“He’s been trying to find you. Now that he has, here we are.”_

_“Why?” he blurted out before he could stop himself._

_If the way her face softened was a sign, she didn’t find it as rude as he knew it to be. Her next words were more a reward than a punishment for his attitude, and he found himself at a complete loss when she told him, “To bring you home.”_

Home?

 _She couldn’t be talking about where he’d been before—that wasn’t_ home _, even if it was all that came to mind right now. In fact, no matter how hard he racked his brains, he couldn’t come up with a picture of what a home would look like. A little voice in his head whispered to him about warmth and love and family, but he didn’t know what those things were. He didn’t know how they felt. He only knew the shadows, and homes definitely weren’t cold and dark with monsters that scared you for fun. He couldn’t quite describe what a home_ was _, not when the idea was so far outside of what he could imagine, but he_ knew _it wasn’t that._

_His blank stare must have been the opposite of what Luna wanted, and he felt a sudden sense of guilt gnawing at his insides when her smile dimmed and her eyes dropped away from his face. Oh no, he was doing this all wrong. He didn’t mean to make her sad! Maybe if he asked her to explain, she’d smile again—she seemed to like doing that!_

_Thinking quickly, he tried to save whatever he could of her good mood by hurriedly inquiring, “What’s that?”_

_The puzzled gaze that met his own wasn’t what he’d been aiming for, but he’d take it if it meant she didn’t look as disappointed as she had a moment ago. Still, her voice didn’t sound as happy when she clarified, “What’s home?”_

_“Y-Yeah…”_

_“Don’t you remember?”_

_Was he supposed to?_

_That probably wasn’t a very good answer, so he didn’t say it. Swallowing hard, he dropped his eyes to his shoes and only just avoided grimacing when he realized the fox—_ Carbuncle _—could still see his face. So much for hiding._

_“I… I don’t…”_

_He couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to finish his sentence. What did he say—yes? Then she’d ask him about it, and he couldn’t make up something if he didn’t have any idea what_ home _was. Luna seemed to know a lot more than he did, so she could probably tell if he was lying._

_It turned out that he didn’t need to worry about that, though. When he cautiously glanced back up, he could see that not saying anything at all had given her enough to go on._

_Surprisingly, she didn’t ask him again. She didn’t try to get him to describe a place he couldn’t remember or tell her about things that he was positive he’d never had. The question she_ did _ask, however, was almost worse._

_“Do you know who you are?”_

_His mouth opened automatically to tell her that that was stupid—of_ course _he knew who he was!—when the words caught in his throat. For all that he tried to get his tongue to make them, they refused to budge, and Luna’s expression turned serious before he could reassure her that everything was okay. It had to be okay, but he couldn’t just_ tell her _! Why couldn’t he_ say it _?! He_ knew _who he was! He was—_

_He was…_

_He…_

Who am I?

 _He didn’t realize he was stammering nonsensical half sentences, not until Luna dropped to her knees in front of him and took both his hands in hers. Those two points of contact, the warmth of her fingers, the sincerity in her gaze made him snap his mouth shut. In that moment, they weren’t two kids trapped in what Luna said was his own mind. No, there was something moving in his chest, in his head—something older, something that_ understood _—_

 _Luna had to see it too, because her nod was as slow as her words when she deliberately told him, “Your name is Noctis Lucis Caelum, son of King Regis Lucis Caelum. And_ you _are the future king of Lucis.”_

_The future king?_

_That…couldn’t be right. He wasn’t a king or a prince or…whatever. He was just…_

_Noctis? Was that him?_

_It seemed right, but the word didn’t feel like it belonged on his tongue when he whispered it. Noctis, the future king of Lucis… Was that his home? Was King Regis Lucis Caelum what that little voice meant when it talked about love and family?_

_No, that wasn’t it. If he was, he would have felt it…wouldn’t he?_

_“Noctis,” Luna called—him?—with an urgent edge to her tone._

_Shaking his head, he stuttered uncertainly, “I’m—I’m n-not—”_

_“You are,” she assured him without letting him finish. Her eyes darted once over his shoulder, but when he tried to turn to see what had caught her attention, her grip on his hands tightened so much that it was painful. “Think, Noctis. Think about home. Try to see it in your mind. Can you do that?”_

_She hadn’t stopped speaking before he shook his head again. He couldn’t—the pictures weren’t there, they ran from him. He didn’t know who_ Noctis Lucis Caelum _was, who_ King Regis Lucis Caelum _was. He didn’t even know what_ Lucis _was!_

_But it hurt. That sharp pain in his chest that had vanished with the monsters was slowly returning, dragging his breath from his chest in ragged gasps. Black spots appeared at the corners of his vision, trying to take him back there, trying to drag him down even as Luna kept asking him to do what he couldn’t—over and over and over—_

_Another voice, a different one that sounded more like the monsters, taunted him for believing that this might last. It reminded him that the only memories that mattered were the ones he couldn’t forget no matter how hard he tried._

_It told him to ignore the white light that seemed to shimmer where his hands clutched Luna’s, his nails leaving red marks on her skin that she didn’t appear to even notice._

_It screamed at him not to pay attention to the red light at his shoulder where it warmed his skin and warded off the shadows for just a little longer—just a little longer—_

_There were faces in the light, watching him with eyes that smiled when they did. The same heat that suffused Luna’s hands emitted from their gazes—their proud, affectionate gazes. They were all so different, but in that, they were identical._

_A brown-haired man with a wicked grin and gentle hands._

_A bespectacled boy who rolled his eyes when he really wanted to laugh._

_A blond guy who seemed to be half human, half camera._

_An aging face filled with wrinkles and steel._

_A brother’s guiding embrace that had kept him upright since he was a child._

_A pair of unforgiving eyes that only yielded for him._

_A regal figure whose longing was only matched by his desperation._

_It was too much—their gazes, their smiles, their agonizing attention all smothered him until he couldn’t breathe. They towered over him, expectant and waiting and making everything hurt. Invisible claws raked his chest, tearing him open and laying him bare for all of them to see his inadequacies, his inability—_

_He needed to get away. He needed to get out of here._

_He didn’t care if he went back to the shadows—anywhere but here._

_Carbuncle flew from his shoulders as he wrenched his hands out of Luna’s grasp, wheeled around, and fled from them all. He didn’t turn when she called his name—_ his _name?—nor did he pause when a flash of white fur tried to keep pace at his heels. He didn’t know those faces. He_ couldn’t _know those faces. He wouldn’t allow himself to know those faces._

_Because they brought the pain back. They made him hurt._

_They weren’t supposed to make him hurt._

_That little voice in his head was laughing at him, laughing at the fact that he could be naïve enough to think they wouldn’t. It jeered at his struggles when the ground melted below his feet, turning black as night and sticking to his shoes as he struggled desperately to keep going. It drowned out Luna’s cries, her warnings, to remind him of his place._

_And it wasn’t in the flowery field that disintegrated into nothingness around him._

_It was here in the darkness, with the voices of his monsters eviscerating all the warmth he’d felt before. They were all he needed to know—they were all he needed to remember._

_But they weren’t the only voices out there. Not this time._

_Those tantalizing, excruciating faces weren’t back: they couldn’t pierce the shadows and fend off the monsters. But he could hear them all the same._

_He heard them. He_ knew _them. As hard as he tried to close his eyes, cover his ears, and shove back the memories that assaulted him, he knew them._

_All of them._

_Gladio’s grin. Ignis’s glasses. Prompto’s camera._

_Uncle Cid’s strength. Nyx’s determination. Cor’s resolve._

_The king’s grief._

_With every one, another knife dug into his chest and speared his heart, because there was nothing in this place but pain. There was nothing in this place but longing for the people he’d once called his family to no avail. There was nothing in this place but torment and agony and everything he’d ever wanted to forget._

_And as he sank into oblivion, without lights or Oracles or Dream Guardians to save him, there was nothing Noctis could do but scream silently into the void._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you guys were all anxiously awaiting Dino's arrival, right? ;D


	25. The Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! This week's chapter is extra long because there was no good way to divide it into two. I hope you enjoy!

All things considered, Gladio wasn’t expecting much when they got to Gralea. They might not have been able to gather the kind of intel they would have liked, but the empire hadn’t exactly made it a secret that they sank all their money into their military. How else were they supposed to conquer every country besides Lucis? The technology, the weaponry, the soldiers—being the biggest bully around cost a hefty sum, and that wasn’t even mentioning the price tag that came with replacing all of it when they inevitably wasted everything on their stupid wars. Gladio didn’t need a bunch of stolen or copied documents to tell him that. With all the empire’s gil getting squirreled away from the civilians, it went without saying that anything not strictly related to imperial expansion had to get the shaft.

So, he was pretty damn surprised to discover that Niflheim’s capital was actually a sprawling urban center nearly as impressive as Insomnia.

Well, not _nearly_. Not even close. The Crown City had to be the most beautiful place on the planet, and Gladio wasn’t biased in saying so. They had culture and history; there was so much to do and see that even he hadn’t put a dent in it, and he’d lived there all his life. Sure, he was more of an outdoorsy type, so a lot of that didn’t really appeal to him the way it did to other people. If he could, he’d go camping every weekend—sleep out under the stars with nothing but the fresh air for company, leave the stress of his job back at the Citadel. It was something he had hoped to do with Noct when he was back in the city where he belonged. All those years in Hammerhead meant that he’d never gotten out much, and while Gladio had thought an overnight trip wouldn’t kill him, he was wise enough now to be glad Cor turned him down every time he proposed it. With his plans shot to shit, he’d silently vowed to make one of Noct’s first priorities a camping trip he’d never forget; it would be good for him to feel that sense of freedom and peace that came from experiencing nature in its purest form.

More than the shopping, more than his work, more than the people—more than anything else, that was what made Insomnia perfect for him. He didn’t have to leave the city just to get a little time away from the hustle and bustle of civilization. There was almost as much green as metal and concrete; in some spots, you wouldn’t even know you were in the capital when it was so quiet. The air was clean out there, and when the sun set, it was almost impossible to see the streetlights over the trees.

Gralea… Yeah, Gralea wasn’t like that.

Whoever was in charge of maintaining this place clearly hadn’t given a shit about stuff like trees and the comforts of nature. Those things took up space, and the empire was nothing if not completely utilitarian. As much as Gladio hated everything they stood for, he had to grudgingly respect at least that much. Everything worked—there was no doubt about that. They’d gotten here just fine; the mines they’d passed along the way were in excellent condition, if a little battered from decades of almost single-handedly supporting the expansion efforts. But there was nothing that wasn’t absolutely necessary, nothing that looked nice just for the sake of it. From the uncomfortable train cars to the plain skyscrapers, the imperial capital was the spitting image of what Gladio imagined Insomnia would have been if nobody gave a damn. Instead of dirt and grass, there was only concrete and pavement; where there would have been a healthy variety of shops along every street at home, there were only bare storefronts with simplistic items for sale here.

If Gladio didn’t know any better, he would have said Gralea was just some half-assed model of what a city should look like, created by someone who had never actually been in one. That would explain the tacky and uncreative architecture, the dated cars, and the way someone hadn’t thought to make sure there was enough sunlight. Seriously, Insomnia was a jungle of skyscrapers, but you could still see the sky above you. In the center of the imperial capital, it might as well have been evening for all that they were able to get any natural light. Every time he thought he could catch a glimpse, the shadow of Zegnautus Keep threw its gloom across their path so that only industrial strength was on display once again. It left a lot to be desired for someone who knew that there were better things in the world, although he supposed it would be different for the people who lived within the empire’s borders. To them, the capital was probably the height of civilization.

To Gladio… Well, Gralea was impressive and all, but it was like walking into a cheerless dungeon with no personality whatsoever.

That might have had something to do with the fact that all the people were frozen in time, though.

“Guess we know how he got Noct on his own,” muttered Gladio, easing past a group of pedestrians that weren’t going anywhere fast.

“It would appear that Ardyn’s powers are far more developed than anticipated,” Ignis agreed with a frown at the vacant expressions of their unmoving audience.

“You ain’t kiddin’.”

The thought of their opposition being able to do _this_ was discouraging, to say the least. Gladio hadn’t been underestimating the guy, per se, but there was no denying that he hadn’t quite expected him to hold so much sway over an entire city. Ever since they got off the train, it had been the same scene: an eerie green haze surrounding them, holding the citizens hostage. Even with the lack of light, Gladio could tell that the sun wasn’t sliding slowly towards the west the way it was supposed to. Freezing people? Okay, he could understand that one. Freezing time itself? That was a hell of a thing to fathom.

The worst part was knowing that when they were finally freed from this spell, the people would have no idea what had happened, not even that they were stuck here while a couple of Lucians waltzed past on their way to Zegnautus. That boded well enough for them: at least they didn’t have to worry about anyone taking issue with the fact that they were carrying around some pretty noticeable weaponry. Still, it made him cringe to think that this had been them a few days ago at the Citadel. When Noct disappeared, he hadn’t even realized. One second, his bedroom door was firmly shut to keep them and their excuses out; the next, it was wide open and their friend was nowhere to be seen. Had Noct looked at them the same way they were staring at the Niffs? Had he thought it was strange, or did the curse rob him of even that much sense?

Would he have cared if it hadn’t, or was he glad that he didn’t have to put up with them after everything they’d said?

That thought wasn’t going to do him any good, so Gladio shoved it aside for the time being. Emotions were dangerous on missions like this, not that he could back that assumption up with any experience. He just knew that if he allowed himself to live in the past, to think about everything they could have done and whether it would have changed what happened, it would slow him down. Right now, that was the last thing they needed. Maybe Ardyn could freeze time until he was ready to move on, but they couldn’t. That meant he needed to focus on this first and his own feelings later.

Maybe.

…Probably not.

Shaking off the irrational sensation of walking in Noct’s footsteps, Gladio hauled his greatsword over his shoulder and observed, “Guess it ain’t all bad. No need to hide.”

“No,” murmured Ignis hesitantly, “but I doubt that would have been possible regardless. Ardyn must have known we arrived if he went to this much trouble.”

“Not exactly the welcome mat I was expecting.”

“On the contrary, it makes a great deal of sense.”

Gladio quirked an eyebrow, glancing at him over his shoulder as they ducked down an alley towards the Keep. “You lost me.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Ignis’s face, but he didn’t reprimand Gladio for apparently not being able to keep up with his advanced intellect the way he normally would have. It was yet another sign of just how far up shit creek they were: if Ignis _could_ run his mouth as though everyone else should have been following along or taking notes or something, he _did_.

This time, however, he kept his voice low and patient when he explained, “If this is indeed how he reached Noct, then none of these people will even know we were here.”

“Yeah, that much I got.”

“It then stands to reason that this is how he intends for us to gain entry to Zegnautus,” he continued as though Gladio hadn’t spoken. “The guards will not register our presence, thus…”

“They can’t stop us,” Gladio finished for him, realization dawning. “This is all to get us inside?”

Frowning, Ignis admitted, “We can’t know for certain until we reach the Keep, but I’d say that’s the most likely course. It would be highly doubtful that we would be allowed in otherwise.”

“Yeah, but Ardyn helps run the place. He could just _make_ them open up.”

“Not unless there is some reason why he would rather keep the emperor unaware of our presence.”

Honestly, Gladio had no idea what would make _Ardyn_ think twice before doing whatever the hell he wanted without a thought to the consequences. He was immortal, not to mention the fact that he had the empire in the palm of his hand. Aldercapt wasn’t going to last much longer—everyone knew it, even in Insomnia. There was only so long that a crochety old gasbag like him could terrorize the world, and if they played their cards right, the end would be arriving shortly. Of course, that wasn’t to say that his death wouldn’t come with its own problems: the Aldercapt family had ruled the empire for centuries, but this emperor hadn’t bothered taking a break from his conquering to ensure that the line of succession continued. There was no heir to the throne of Niflheim, and none of them were lucky enough to believe that they might just let the territory they’d stolen go because their leader kicked it. No, whatever happened next wasn’t going to be pretty, but Gladio had no doubt that it would land them all in the same mess they were in right now no matter who took the job.

Actually, scratch that. If Ardyn put his ass in that chair, it wouldn’t just be a mess anymore—it would be a goddamn catastrophe.

There was no way he’d served all this time in Niflheim under someone like Aldercapt only to play errand-boy to another dictator, though. No way in hell. Which meant that he had big plans, and if he hadn’t already consolidated a ton of power over the imperial government, Gladio would eat his sword.

Then why wasn’t he just throwing open the doors and welcoming them inside?

“Something ain’t right about this,” muttered Gladio, leading the way around the corner and up a flight of stairs to the elevated train tracks above. Ignis hummed thoughtfully behind him.

“I quite agree. Unfortunately, we have no choice but to play into his hands. If he intends to capture us like he did with Prompto, he must know he would have an international incident on his hands.”

“Not that he’d give a damn about that kind of thing.”

“No, but the emperor _would_ ,” Ignis reminded him. “Niflheim does not hold the upper hand against Lucis anymore. Aldercapt must know that word of our arrest would be tantamount to a declaration of war.”

“So, what—he lures us in and kills us before the emperor finds out?” Gladio snorted derisively. “Doesn’t sound like much of a plan.”

“Perhaps not to us, but Ardyn has been plotting his revenge for longer than either of us have been alive. What we cannot understand, he has undoubtedly already thought through in great detail. It is inadvisable to underestimate his methods until we know more.”

 _As if that’s gonna happen_ , Gladio thought with a sigh when he got a load of what was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Admittedly, he hadn’t counted on there being a lot of resistance for them to get through. There wouldn’t have been a point in bringing them all the way out here only to keep them from getting inside Zegnautus, whatever Ignis said about motives and all that.

He still didn’t expect the door to the place to literally be left wide open.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say he wants us to go this way,” he guessed with a cautious glance around the platform. According to the directions that Talcott guy had sent them, this was one of the few entrances that they would be able to reach; the others were either underground or only accessible from the roof. That being said, they’d decided this would be the best course since it was in the least populated part of the city. Regardless of what was waiting for them on the inside, the more guards they could avoid in the process, the better.

It turned out that they didn’t need to worry about that, though: not one guard _or_ civilian was wandering around up here. The platform was deserted. There weren’t any trains on the tracks, moving or otherwise, and not a soul had been patrolling the perimeter of the building before whatever Ardyn did took effect. Unlike the city below, he never would have known that time had stopped if it weren’t for the greenish tinge that still hung in the air to remind them that they were being followed by something that couldn’t be seen.

Ignis must have noticed it too, because he immediately reached for his daggers where they had been sheathed at his side as he took a few tentative steps towards the door.

Like the rest of the city, there was nothing special about it. Of course, that might have been because it appeared to be some kind of service entrance, but there was really no way to tell in this place. It could have been a service entrance, or it could have been the door to the treasury for all the Niffs seem to care about differentiating around here. The only thing he could be sure of was that it was definitely off the beaten path. The train tracks ran right up into the structure itself, so there had to be another platform inside for security; maybe that was where they’d hidden all the impressive stuff. Out here, though, there was just one set of rickety metal stairs leading up to a plain metal door—it was even less decorated than everything else in Gralea, which was saying a hell of a lot.

It wasn’t like they needed a grand entrance or anything, expected or otherwise. This suited their purposes just fine, so they made for the stairs without a moment’s hesitation. They might not have known what was waiting for them inside, but the silence out here was starting to get to him.

Ignis, ever the collected one (Gladio, on the other hand, was itching to punch something to break up the monotony of their surroundings), took the stairs two at a time ahead of him and peered into the open door with a suspicious frown.

“Anything?” Gladio whispered, sword at the ready just in case. It didn’t do much to put him at ease when his companion shook his head, more confused than anything else from the looks of it.

“The coast appears to be clear,” he murmured in response.

A few seconds passed where neither of them moved, and Gladio tried to tell himself it was because they were being cautious—that they were simply waiting to make sure no guards showed up and sounded some kind of alarm. It would have been nice if that was all they had to worry about. It wasn’t, though. Setting foot inside the Keep was a step that they wouldn’t be able to come back from. They had no idea what was going to happen inside: the door could slam shut behind them like in those dumb horror movies Prompto enjoyed so much, or they might just find themselves alone with their own thoughts like they had been ever since they got off the train. Either way, there was no telling what awaited them. There would be no turning back until they found Prompto, and even that wasn’t a guarantee.

But Ignis had been right in Hammerhead: they couldn’t return to Insomnia without him, dead or alive.

Gladio just hoped they’d be able to return to Insomnia _period_.

There was no use hovering around out here, though. They had a job to do, and the train would only wait so long. They had to get in and get out before it left; if they didn’t, the conductor had made no bones about telling them he’d leave their asses behind. The clock had stopped the moment they stepped into the streets of Gralea, so at least that bought them a little time, but it was better to get a move on instead of tempting fate.

So, tightening his grip on his greatsword, Gladio slipped past Ignis and led the way into the dim interior of the Keep.

Their eyes had hardly adjusted when Ignis’s condescending sniff reached his ears, followed by a disdainful, “Charming.”

That was one way to put it. For a massive fortification that somehow managed to defy the laws of physics with its oversized crown, Gladio would have thought it would be a little nicer inside than…well, _this_. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t more regal parts of the building somewhere, but the Citadel was the picture of perfection whether you were in the throne room or the guest levels that almost never saw use. No matter where you wandered, the floors were spotless, the halls were clear, and everything was in its proper place.

Not in Zegnautus. The moment Ignis closed the rusting door behind them, it was like they had stepped into a world of darkness. The fluorescent lights set at intervals above them barely illuminated a concrete structure full of exposed pipes and spare parts that had probably been ordered a few decades ago if the layer of dust covering them was anything to go by. Crates of supplies were scattered around the room without any rhyme or reason, and there were small piles of garbage littering the floor that gave the air a less than attractive smell. Between all that and the cold gloom of Ardyn’s spell, Gladio couldn’t help the shiver of apprehension that ran up his spine.

“Nice place.”

“Certainly has a cheery quality to it,” lilted Ignis, his nose wrinkled against the stench.

It only got worse as they crept to the opposite end of the room, passed under a concrete arch, and emerged into an open space filled with the odor of sulfur and steel. He’d known the empire was renowned for its technology, but _damn_. Whatever they used to generate power for the Keep had to be enormous, because so much steam was rising from the grates in the floor that it nearly blinded them to their surroundings as it drifted towards the open sky above. By the time it cleared enough to see, they were standing at the edge of the grating, and Gladio leaned over the metal rail to find that he’d been wrong—the Niffs really _didn’t_ care if their visitors were satisfied with the place. Below them were the tracks they’d seen from outside, only instead of what he would have considered an appropriate station for the literal center of imperial might, there was just a simple platform with a plain set of stairs heading up to whatever existed behind the bare, windowless walls.

“I suppose the empire has little inclination to impress their guests,” mused Ignis, seeming to read his mind. Gladio chuckled humorlessly.

“You’d think they’d be able to afford better than _that_.”

“I’d wager they prefer to save their money for more egregious exploits.”

There was no arguing that, so Gladio grunted in acknowledgement before turning his back to the station and glaring into the shadows. “All right. So, we’re in. Now how do we find Prompto?”

For the first time since they’d discovered he was missing, Ignis hesitated. Gladio couldn’t blame him: it was one thing to know that Prompto was in Gralea and another to actually _find_ him. Zegnautus was enormous, the pillar at the center leading straight up to a diamond-shaped fortification as long as the Citadel was tall. How the hell were they supposed to know where exactly he was being held? With as big a mess as the lower level seemed, Gladio somehow doubted they were going to see any maps that would point them towards whatever passed for a dungeon around here. They could search for weeks without results, and that was only _if_ Ardyn’s spell kept them hidden from anyone they might run across while they were inside.

Under different circumstances, Gladio would have said it wasn’t worth it. He would have said that the odds were stacked high enough against them that they needed to retreat, to come up with another plan, to get their information another way.

But these weren’t different circumstances, and there were no other options. It was Zegnautus or returning to Insomnia empty-handed. Oddly enough, the latter sounded worse.

Luckily, Ignis was Ignis, and it didn’t take long for him to survey the landscape and come up with a viable plan. Or as viable as it got, anyway.

“The central pillar must house an elevator,” he thought aloud, seemingly more to himself than to Gladio. “If that is the case, then it would be the easiest route to the center of the Keep. After that, there must be some sort of detention center inside.”

“It ain’t gonna be easy to find.”

Nodding in reluctant agreement, Ignis turned back the way they came and called over his shoulder, “Then we’d best start looking.”

That, at least, wasn’t too tough where the elevator was concerned. Before they could take more than a few steps, a door to their right slid open as if it was just waiting for them to arrive—or someone else was.

“Convenient,” grumbled Gladio as Ignis wordlessly made for the corridor on the other side.

It wasn’t any different from what they’d already seen, although Gladio had to admit that the lack of guards—frozen or otherwise—was more than a little suspicious. If Ardyn really was trying to keep their presence a secret, then he wouldn’t have been likely to tell everyone to get out before they got here. Shouldn’t there have been someone watching the place? Or did they make it a habit to leave the doors wide open and hope that nobody was going to get curious enough to come on in?

Then again, it wasn’t like there was much to see. As they turned the corner and hurried up the steps to another door, all they passed was an empty dormitory for whoever was _supposed_ to be on duty and more garbage shoved into the corners. Seriously, the empire was meant to be some enormous powerhouse—he would think that they’d be able to keep their soldiers from dumping their trash all over the place.

They weren’t the only ones, though. Every room looked exactly like the first, from the building materials thrown haphazardly wherever they fit to the machinery that seemed to have been installed with no thought to how the hell you were supposed to get past it without tripping over the damn monstrosities. Where he’d originally assumed that whoever built Gralea had never seen a city before, he was really starting to wonder whether the architects they’d hired actually knew how to construct anything at all. The place was a pit, a modern marvel on the outside with utter chaos just past the walls.

What a nice metaphor for the empire itself, as a matter of fact. It was rotten to the core, but from the outside, it looked like it had its shit together.

Now _that_ was a joke.

Only one person in this hellhole had his head screwed on right, and the guy happened to be one of the most powerful lunatics that had ever been put on the face of Eos. It was a good thing his plans seemed to work to their advantage for the time being; they would have been in real trouble otherwise.

For now, it looked like Ardyn still wanted them to make it into the innermost part of the Keep. The green light above the elevator was on when they finally found it, and the fluorescents inside were eerily waiting for them to board.

“Our chariot awaits,” observed Ignis wryly as they stepped inside.

Gladio opened his mouth to reply, but the words died on his tongue when he reached out to select a floor at random and found that there was something covering the elevator panel. Something that should never have been there.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, snatching the photograph off the wall with more force than he probably should have. It was impossible to temper the sudden emotion that flared in his chest, however, when he saw his own face grinning up at him in the last place he ever would have expected.

The picture wasn’t new—actually, he’d totally forgotten taking it given how many years had passed since he’d last seen it. He’d been all of…what, eighteen? Nineteen? It was definitely after he’d officially joined the Crownsguard: he could glimpse the tattoo that all Shields were honored to receive poking out from underneath the collar of his shirt. Other than that, the only thing he could say with any certainty was that they’d taken it on one of their countless trips to Hammerhead. That much was obvious when the garage was the backdrop to their goofy poses—himself with an arm slung over Noct’s bony teenage shoulders, the prince holding Ignis’s glasses out of the latter’s reach while he tried not to look too put out about the theft. Prompto had been behind the camera that time; Gladio could at least remember checking to see how the shot had turned out on his screen, if nothing else.

How had it found its way from Prompto’s camera to Zegnautus Keep?

Ardyn must have gotten his hands on it somehow. Noct was supposed to be protected in Hammerhead—for whatever it was worth when the Messenger hadn’t managed to accomplish much else—so the mage wouldn’t have been able to try anything when he was still there. No, he would have had to take these after he left, after he went back to the Citadel. There was no other possibility.

Ignis appeared to be at as much of a loss as him, but they didn’t have a chance to ponder it further. Before they could select a floor, the doors to the circular elevator slid closed, and it began its rapid ascent.

“This just keeps getting weirder and weirder,” muttered Gladio darkly, to which Ignis nodded grimly.

“He’s toying with us.”

His fingers tightened at the corners of the photograph as he slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket and replied, “You can say that again.”

“We mustn’t let him into our heads,” Ignis chided sternly, although Gladio could tell from his rigid posture (more than normal, anyway) that he wasn’t doing such a hot job of taking his own advice. “Allowing him to unnerve us will mean opening ourselves to potential mistakes. We must keep our wits about us, at least until we are able to retreat.”

That was easier said than done, especially when the elevator door opened to show them another picture, this one dropped unceremoniously on the floor at their feet. Ignis bent to pick it up this time, a perplexed frown on his face that Gladio had to sympathize with when he peered over his shoulder to see that yeah, Ardyn _could_ get even creepier than that first photo. This one featured Noct alone, sitting in a booth at Takka’s with books laid out on the table in front of him. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, by Gladio’s guess, but that wasn’t the gross part.

The gross part was that the picture had been taken from _outside_ the diner, through the windows like the photographer was some kind of sicko. Given the person they were dealing with, he figured he couldn’t be too far from the truth.

“Looks like Prompto’s shots weren’t good enough,” grumbled Gladio with a glare at the photo.

Ignis didn’t answer immediately, staring down at it with a calculating expression that Gladio usually saw when he was torturing himself with one of the tougher crossword puzzles in the paper. (Because even though most print was going digital, leave it to Ignis to hang onto that last bastion of the past.) He couldn’t tell what there was to work out, though. Sure, it was definitely weird to find these _here_ , but it was just a picture. Anyone could have taken it on Ardyn’s orders, especially since Hammerhead wasn’t exactly an exclusive destination. Adding any more security to the outpost would have raised red flags, and considering what the king’s goal had been in sending Noct there in the first place, it was a risk they hadn’t been able to avoid taking. It was a mystery, but one they could work on solving later.

When a few seconds passed and Ignis still didn’t speak, Gladio huffed impatiently and grunted, “The king was worried that he figured out where Noct was after that daemon attack. Guess he wasn’t wrong.”

That snapped him out of it. Ignis looked up at him, nodding slowly as he slipped the picture into his pocket. His confused frown didn’t disappear, though.

“No,” he murmured after a moment, his voice sounding miles away. “I suppose he wasn’t.”

He didn’t like the sound of that. Not at all.

But there wasn’t time for them to talk it out, not even when it was currently standing still. So, Gladio nodded towards the narrow hallway ahead of them and suggested, “Let’s just keep movin’. We can worry about catching the asshole who took that later.”

Surprisingly, Ignis didn’t have a response for that besides a hesitant glance in his direction as he cautiously stepped out of the elevator. If anything, that set him even more on edge.

_…Okay…_

Shaking his head, Gladio followed suit without asking. Ignis would tell him in his own good time, and right now, they had bigger things to worry about—like the fact that they had no idea where they were going. When they were looking for the elevator, he’d thought for sure that they’d have it easier once they reached the top; that was the plan, at least, and it wasn’t like they’d run into any resistance yet. Apparently, he’d been wrong. The Niffs didn’t seem too big on making a fortress that people could actually find their way through, or even one that didn’t appear to have been thrown together on a whim. Just like below, there were crates of supplies on either side of the already narrow passage, creating blind spots that made Gladio roll his eyes in disdain. Some military stronghold—the guards wouldn’t be able to see around the obstacles in their path if someone got in.

And there _were_ guards, although they were in about the same shape as everyone out on the streets. The aura of Ardyn’s magic surrounded them where they were stationed up ahead; they didn’t turn at the sound of the elevator or glance over to wonder why two armed guys without uniforms were wandering around without an escort. Hell, they weren’t even breathing. Normally, Gladio wouldn’t have minded that, but this was just plain eerie. Ardyn was going to all this trouble, and for what? So they could rescue Prompto? So he could kill them? It didn’t add up, not that it really had to. They didn’t have any other options—all their plans rested on whatever answers Prompto might have. Whatever game Ardyn was playing, whatever he wanted from them that led to this place, there was nothing else for it but to play along for now.

Still, if he was going to make it this easy, it would have been nice if he’d at least provided a map. Well, a better one than they found on the wall to their left, anyway.

“It would appear that we are on the ground level,” mused Ignis as he examined the half-assed directions. “The central elevator is on the fifth. That should take us anywhere in the Keep.”

“I don’t see any place for prisoners here,” Gladio pointed out. This had been fairly simple so far, but it couldn’t be _that_ easy.

Ignis hummed in acknowledgement, searching the map one last time before replying, “In this case, what _isn’t_ marked might serve us better than what _is_.”

“Meaning?”

“These floors here”—he pointed to the unmarked outlines of three different levels—“have no descriptions, not even to say that they are administration. Unless I am quite mistaken, those should be our goals. It would be poor security if they broadcast where they were holding prisoners to anyone who passes through.”

Snorting, Gladio muttered, “Not like they’ve got a lot going for them there anyway.”

“Not in the slightest,” agreed Ignis with a small smirk. It faded a few seconds later, his pensive frown replacing it when he continued, “In any case, we should start there. It’s the best chance we have at finding Prompto.”

“Yeah…” Gladio paused to peer over his shoulder at the static guards. “Should probably get a move on, too. Don’t wanna be here when they wake up.”

“I doubt we’ll have to worry about them just yet, but there’s little use in wasting time.”

Despite his thin reassurance, Ignis immediately set off beside him, but not before snapping a picture of the map with his phone. Better safe than sorry and all that, he guessed.

From there, they cautiously picked their way past the Niffs as if they might come alive if touched. Of course, that could very well be the case; it wasn’t like they knew how this damn magic worked. It wasn’t worth experimenting, though. They’d come too far to screw it all up now.

And apparently, they had a long way left to go. Their path to the central elevator was clear enough, but it was a goddamn maze the whole way. While the map had given them the basic outline of each floor, it was nowhere near complete. There were hallways that branched off in every direction, some of them leading to dead ends while others deposited them in rooms with no other exits. Everywhere they went, though, Gladio was struck by just how chaotic the place was. Niflheim prided itself on its military above all else, even to the point of forsaking their own people’s well-being. He would have thought that if anywhere was the picture of precision, it would have been here. Instead, it was one of the most unprofessional setups Gladio had ever seen. Where Insomnia’s armories were neatly organized with everything accounted for, it looked like the Niffs simply stored things wherever there was enough space. Boxes of nails and washers were tossed on top of gun crates, waiting for a piece of furniture to hold together; there were stacks of files dumped carelessly on threadbare couches and rusting metal shelves. There was no system here, which made it all the more difficult to keep track of where they were going as they hurried through the hallways in search of the elevator.

The only thing that kept them on the right path, the only way they were able to be sure that they weren’t just going in circles, was the seemingly endless supply of pictures that guided them forward. If they hit a fork in the road, all they had to do was look for the telltale photograph on the floor or stuck to the wall or left sitting on top of a crate—they couldn’t miss them. It was like Ardyn had left a trail for them to follow, a bunch of breadcrumbs that would lead them to the proverbial feast.

It wasn’t right. _Nothing_ about it was right, particularly when he noticed that all the photographs had one factor in common: _Noct_. There were pictures of him doing his homework, sorting dishes at the diner, helping Cid wash cars, petting Umbra with a grin when he believed no one was watching. (He wouldn’t look so damn mushy if he thought he had an audience, that was for sure.) Some of them had Ignis and Gladio in them; others, it was just him. Either way, Noct featured in every single one.

The worst part? Most of them looked like they were taken without his knowledge, which was something they were _definitely_ going to address when he woke up. There was no way Gladio would let him go through life, especially a life in the spotlight, with such underdeveloped skills in sensing when there were eyes on him. Nope, they were nipping that in the bud right off the bat.

But that wasn’t the point. The _point_ was that Ardyn had somehow gotten his hands on these pictures—that Ardyn had somehow gotten a spy into Hammerhead to _take_ them—and now he was using them as some kind of…what? Cruel joke? Heartless taunt?

Or was he trying to tell them something?

Gladio shook that thought aside the moment the voice in his head insidiously whispered it. There was no deeper meaning to these photos, _period_. Ardyn liked being in charge almost as much as he loved showing King Regis that he could reach into Lucis and do whatever the hell he wanted. This was just his way of gloating about having clearly had eyes on Noct this whole time, that was all. That _had_ to be all.

It didn’t matter that they were printed on the same paper as a few that he had in frames back home.

It didn’t matter that some of the edges were frayed and stained with age when Prompto kept his printed photos in mint condition.

It didn’t matter that the style or the lighting was as familiar to him as breathing.

It didn’t matter that Ignis’s expression grew more and more unsettled with every picture they collected.

He couldn’t believe that there was more to this than some sick bastard’s sense of humor. He just couldn’t.

Until he could.

The central elevator was one of the creepiest structures he’d seen yet, and that was saying something when the whole place made his skin crawl. Enclosed in a circular glass encasement, it was the only point of light in the cavernous room the map directed them to. A few tiny bulbs winked at them from the distant concrete walls, but they barely put a dent in the darkness that hung heavily in the air around them. And over the edge of the railing… Well, it was a long way down. From up here, they couldn’t even see the bottom, just a black pit that must have had an end somewhere.

“Gotta hand it to ‘em,” he whispered, cringing at the way his voice still echoed back at him, “they did a hell of a job with the interior.”

“It’s… _unique_ , to say the least,” remarked Ignis with similar distaste.

Unlike Gladio, he didn’t seem as keen on surveying their surroundings. Rather, he made straight for the elevator as if everything in between was just a distraction—and maybe it was. Maybe Gladio wasn’t looking forward to finding out what other scenes from Noct’s teenage years Ardyn had seen fit to keep; maybe Gladio was putting off the moment when he would have to see his prince and friend staring up at him in a way he never would again if they didn’t find a way to break the curse.

If they didn’t find Prompto somewhere in this shithole.

It was that thought alone that kept him trudging along behind Ignis, however reluctantly, his sword held at the ready even though the guards lining the path to the elevator weren’t about to jump into action. There was no telling when they would or what would happen if they did, so they weren’t worth gawking at when they needed to keep going. For all they knew, Ardyn would eventually get bored with watching them run around his so-called palace (because it would be naïve to think that he didn’t have eyes on them, the bastard) and shake things up a bit. Weirder stuff had happened.

In fact, weirder stuff was waiting for them when they entered the glass enclosure and circled around to the front of the elevator. There was nothing special about the photo that met them at their goal—in another place, another time, he wouldn’t have looked twice at it—but it still made all the difference.

Because this picture wasn’t some surreptitious, candid shot of Noct in the process of going about his former life. It wasn’t taken through a window or from halfway across the outpost. It wasn’t the product of a spy bent on tearing their prince down.

It was a selfie, one of the hundreds Prompto had captured of all four of them together.

In that instant, it felt like someone had hit him over the head with the world’s biggest hammer. They’d collected dozens of photos on their way through the Keep, but this was the only picture that included Prompto. That in itself was strange: there was no reason for the rest of them to end up in this weird little scrapbook Ardyn was apparently making when he was the one who had spent the most time around Noct. Even if they were from Prompto’s own stash, it still didn’t make any sense. Despite his fascination with photographing just about everything, he didn’t leave any of himself lying around. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t take them, of course. Hell, he couldn’t go a day without throwing an arm around someone’s neck and getting a shot of them, regardless of how much you bitched about it. The last time Gladio had checked—much to Prompto’s embarrassment and his own amusement—he had taken an almost disturbing number of selfies. Whether it was on his hikes around Longwythe, grabbing a bite to eat at the diner, or glaring at an engine that even he couldn’t annoy into submission, there was no shortage of his own face in that camera of his.

But that was the thing: for as many pictures as Prompto took of himself, he never printed them out. Noct had practically begged him for a copy of one they’d taken a few years back, and even then, Prompto had tried to give him a different shot until he got a load of those _eyes_ Noct made when he didn’t get what he wanted. (He wasn’t a brat or anything, but damn, he could make you feel like shit sometimes without even trying.) In all the years Gladio had known him, Prompto had never once kept the ones with his face in them. He’d assumed that that was because of his past, that he wouldn’t want there to be any sign of him if he had to leave in a hurry and forgot something.

Now, however, he wasn’t so sure. And if he was reading the cold rage in Ignis’s eyes right, then he wasn’t the only one.

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?” he asked through gritted teeth. Ignis merely breathed in deeply, pursing his lips as he took another long look at the photograph in his hands.

“I’m thinking,” he carefully replied after a moment, “that we should not jump to conclusions just yet.”

_Is he joking?_

Wheeling around to glare at him, Gladio spat, “Doesn’t seem like very far to jump.”

“Which is why we must take care in presuming what we cannot yet confirm,” snapped Ignis, glowering right back at him. That didn’t stop Gladio from scoffing incredulously.

“What, you think Ardyn printed this out on his own?” he demanded, jerking his head in the direction of the picture. “’Cause it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then you gotta be aware of what this looks like!”

“I know full well!” shouted Ignis. His voice echoed off the metal and glass chamber, breaking the silence that tried to settle between them as they stared at each other in mingled contempt and disbelief. When the noise finally faded, Gladio slowly shook his head.

“It ain’t like you to ignore the evidence. Not when it all points to one thing.”

Visibly collecting himself, Ignis straightened his shoulders and seemed to be doing his best not to lose his temper as he evenly replied, “Evidence can be manipulated. We’re here in search of truth, and until we find it, I refuse to believe that…”

“That Prompto’s a goddamn spy,” snarled Gladio when he trailed off.

“Yes,” Ignis quietly affirmed.

Whether it was the gentle denial in his tone or the flat resignation in his eyes, Gladio couldn’t seem to find the words to reply. The anger was still there; the premature sense of betrayal eating at his insides hadn’t gone anywhere. In spite of his convictions, though, he could only nod tersely and keep his mouth shut. He didn’t want to believe that Prompto had been lying all this time, that they had missed a clear and present danger for five long years. He didn’t want to believe that Noct had been so vulnerable, taken in by the prospect of friendship when he was too isolated to recognize the warning signs. He didn’t want to believe that _he_ had been taken in by some excuse about being a refugee in hiding.

For once, Gladio didn’t _want_ to be proven right. He just wanted to find Prompto and get the hell out of here like they’d planned.

So, they didn’t waste any more words or time or hope in arguing. Although it seemed to cost him something, Ignis stowed their latest find with the other photos, and Gladio could read every one of his thoughts in the way his knuckles were white where he gripped his daggers tightly in his free hand. Neither of them were surprised when the elevator doors closed or it began moving on its own—they were too used to Ardyn’s interference and how he seemed to be guiding them along a path Gladio wasn’t sure he wanted to reach the end of anymore.

They didn’t have much of a choice, though. For as heavy as the pictures felt in his pocket, weighing him down with every floor they ascended, Gladio knew that they couldn’t stop now. Whatever Prompto had done—whoever Prompto _was_ —they had to see this through. If they were lucky, they were wrong.

Gladio _really_ hoped they were wrong.

It was almost a relief when the elevator slid to a smooth stop and deposited them onto a metal walkway that led straight to what was probably the most elaborately designed structure in the entire building. They could shove all thoughts of pictures and traitors to the back of their minds as they stared in awe at the chamber. Well, he called it a chamber, but it was a hell of a lot bigger than that. It was like the entire Keep had been hollowed out to make this one room, it was _that_ enormous. Machines lined the walls on either side of them, lit up with blue and red lights as they did things that Gladio could only guess at. The sheer number of panels and observation windows made him think this had to be some sort of hub or control center, but that couldn’t be right—it was too empty for that. Just like when they’d first entered the Keep, there were no guards here, only the glow of the technology that Niflheim valued more than any human being.

At the center of it all was a concrete dome with wrought iron bars covering large openings at the sides and a heavy steel door barring their entry. Whatever was inside, they definitely didn’t want anyone getting in, and Gladio didn’t regret circling around the back instead of plowing right on through. The place screamed _danger_. Sure, it could have been the paranoia finally getting to him, but something told him this wasn’t where they wanted to be.

Which was why he was glad when Ignis didn’t try to linger and figure things out the way he half expected him to. Instead, he followed Gladio’s lead, ducking around the structure and moving along the metal grating towards yet another goddamn door. If he hadn’t seen it from the outside, Gladio would have said that the Keep went on forever—that or they’d been going in circles through this maze. It wouldn’t have surprised him, not when the greenish tinge of magic in the air didn’t help him feel any less like they’d been wandering around for hours with no success.

Or maybe they weren’t so far off. Before they’d gotten on the central elevator, there had been photographs littering their path, but they hadn’t seen any more as they followed yet another passageway that was impossible to differentiate from any of the others. A part of him didn’t mind that at all: his heart was still pounding, his clenched fists aching to pummel something at the simple idea that—

 _No_.

He couldn’t think about that. Right now, triage was the name of the game: finding Prompto had to be their number one priority. They could deal with the rest after that—they’d have to.

It was amazing how his apprehension seemed to make them move faster through the labyrinth of corridors. The time they’d spent getting up here seemed to crawl, yet ever since they’d found that last picture, he would have thought the clock sped up if it weren’t still frozen. Now that they were here and had something to _not_ look forward to, the seconds ticked by in a blur until they were hitting a red button in a crowded control room and stepping into a dingy cell block.

“Huh,” mused Gladio, eyeing their surroundings in disgust as they strode carefully down the row. “Would’a thought it’d be bigger.”

“ _I_ would have thought it housed prisoners,” replied Ignis sardonically.

He had a point. Glancing around, Gladio noted for the first time that none of these cells were populated. It was a good thing, too, because they weren’t quite what he would have called _humane_ , even by the empire’s standards. There was barely any room to move let alone pass a few weeks or years before being freed— _if_ you were freed. Gladio didn’t need to step inside one of the open cells to determine that he wouldn’t fit in there without some pretty clever maneuvering. Maybe he could have made it work if he took out the grimy bunks settled against one wall and the suspiciously rank bucket in the corner, but it would still be pushing it.

And that wasn’t all it was pushing: there were _laws_ against these conditions. Just because Niflheim hadn’t bought into those international codes didn’t mean they weren’t equally binding. The sole reason they got away with it was because there simply wasn’t anyone left to hold them accountable when they owned half the world. Prisoners couldn’t be kept in these sorts of places; there were certain rights that even the worst offenders had to be provided. Gladio might have disagreed with some of them—hell, even _most_ of them—but they were there.

Lucis followed those rules. As far as he knew, Altissia and Tenebrae did, as well.

Not Niflheim. Never Niflheim.

_Big surprise._

Still, as good as it was to know that there weren’t any poor souls trapped here like this, Gladio couldn’t help frowning in confusion as he exchanged a wary glance with Ignis. The empire wasn’t hated all around Eos for nothing. There _should_ have been some prisoners around here.

Instead, there was only one.

At the end of the long hall ahead of them was a cell that…wasn’t a cell at all. It looked like more of a storage room, although the chains lining the walls and bottles of stuff Gladio didn’t _want_ to identify on various shelves told a different story. That wasn’t what had them quickening their pace, though. No, the familiar figure strung up on a metal frame in the middle of the crowded space did that.

The two sets of barred doors between them and Prompto were unlocked, which wasn’t much of a surprise given the circumstances. Gladio tried not to think of it as a bad thing as he barged in: at least they didn’t have to go hunting around for whichever guard had the key. He was willing to do a lot to get out of here in a hurry, but that was just a waste of time. So, he’d take the advantage and run with it, even though he knew it wasn’t _good_ —even though he knew that it meant they were playing right into what Ardyn wanted like Ignis said. This was one game he wasn’t going to win, though. Not if Gladio had anything to say about it.

And speaking of winning, it sure looked like Prompto hadn’t. He wasn’t hurt, at least not visibly, but there was definitely no way he was getting out of those restraints on his own. The look he shot them when he raised his head wasn’t one that told Gladio he expected their help either. Actually, it was the exact opposite, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets at the sight of them standing there.

“Ignis? Gladio?”

“Who’s it look like?” he grunted, shuffling forward until he was just a few feet away. His fingers twitched with an aborted gesture, but Gladio kept his hands resolutely by his sides. Things were fine the way they were: Prompto couldn’t go anywhere when his wrists and ankles were shackled to…whatever it was, so he’d have no choice but to either set their minds at ease or set things straight. If it was the former, then they’d cut him loose and get the hell out of here.

If it wasn’t… Well, he was right where he needed to be, in that case.

His thoughts must have shown on his face, because Prompto swallowed nervously, his expression drawn into the same tight anxiety he’d worn the day he told Gladio where he came from. Or so he’d thought back then. The barcode he could see peeking out from behind Prompto’s restraints suddenly took on a whole new meaning, and it had nothing to do with a prisoner just looking for freedom—at least not when they were younger. At the moment, though, that pretty much summed it up.

It seemed to take Prompto a lot more effort than usual to speak, but they didn’t interrupt or try to hurry him along. If he was what Gladio was increasingly coming to suspect, then he was just fine with letting Prompto sweat a little.

“W-What’re you guys doing here?” he eventually managed to ask in what would have sounded like a normal voice if he wasn’t currently bound and shackled. Gladio narrowed his eyes at the way Prompto’s gaze shifted to Ignis as though he might find some sympathy in that logical brain of his.

The raised eyebrow and impassive glower he received in response seemed to kill whatever hope he had, and his face fell when Ignis coolly replied, “We came in search of a friend, but we’re beginning to question whether our trust was misplaced.”

As far as Gladio was concerned, Prompto didn’t need to answer. The guilty downward twitch at the corners of his lips said it all for him. That more than anything else was what lit him up enough to yank the photos he’d gathered from his pocket and wave them in Prompto’s face, his sword clattering loudly against the floor where he dropped it.

Pouring every ounce of guilt and dismay and regret and pure _fury_ into his voice, he snarled, “What the hell are these?!”

“I can explain!” Prompto exclaimed immediately, not even bothering to lie to them. Gladio wasn’t sure whether it would have been better or worse, but that reply did nothing to slow the deafening roar of his own blood in his ears as he struggled not to use those restraints to their full advantage.

The words didn’t need to be said for him to know he was right: Prompto _had_ taken those photos. He _had_ lied to them, betrayed them—betrayed _Noct_.

Yeah, they bore the brunt of the blame. If they had done better, then they would be busy earning Noct’s trust back instead of hunting around this godforsaken shithole in search of answers. _They_ weren’t the ones who had played spy for the enemy, though; they weren’t the ones who had sent pictures of their so-called friend to the one person who wanted him out of the way.

They’d betrayed Noct. They hadn’t doomed him.

“We hardly need an explanation. I believe it’s quite obvious what happened here.”

Ignis’s voice reached him as if he was speaking from the other side of Eos, dragging him out of his thoughts and back into the present. When Gladio looked over his shoulder, it was to see that he appeared completely collected—on the outside, anyway. He knew Ignis well enough to guess that underneath his somehow still neatly pressed suit and the thirty layers of professionalism he wore like a second skin, his thoughts were raging just as much as Gladio’s. There was no way they couldn’t be: for as many times as Gladio had hinted that he was too detached, too damn _reasonable_ , he knew that Noct being in danger frayed those seemingly impenetrable nerves of steel. That was what made him so dangerous, maybe even more than Gladio himself. As Shield to the future king, he could handle just about any physical threat; he’d trained his entire life to make sure he could stand in between Noct and the rest of the world without ever flinching.

Ignis was something else. He was just as capable when it came to battle, but he also had the wits to back it up. Anything Gladio was only now realizing, Ignis had probably figured out a few hours ago and brainstormed twelve different plans to deal with. Ever since they were kids, that was how it had always been.

It was no different now—Gladio could see it in his eyes.

Prompto couldn’t have missed it either, and he stumbled self-consciously over his words when he pleaded, “S-Seriously, it’s—it’s not what it looks like!”

“So, you _weren’t_ sneaking pictures of Noct and sending them to that creep?” scoffed Gladio, clenching his fists tightly when Prompto paled.

“I…”

“And I suppose you _weren’t_ spying on Noct and reporting his activities to Arydn?” Ignis intoned.

“Only…” Prompto hesitated, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he sagged in defeat and murmured, “Only at the beginning…”

Gladio didn’t realize he’d moved until he was right in front of Prompto, slamming his fist into the metal frame around him with a resounding _clang_. What he wouldn’t have given for those restraints to have been the little liar’s face—what he wouldn’t have given to beat the piece of shit to a pulp and let _him_ feel what they had ever since they’d found Noct in the armory.

But he couldn’t. They needed him to talk, no matter how badly Gladio _didn’t_ want to hear what he had to say. They needed him to tell them how much Ardyn knew, and that would be pretty tough if he broke Prompto’s face.

_Later._

For now, Gladio had to be content with letting Ignis take the lead, because there was no way he would be able to keep himself from doing something he’d regret if he didn’t. Besides, of the two of them, Ignis was the one who had been trained to flay a person up one side and down the other in order to get information. This would go quicker with him asking the questions.

Or maybe not _asking_.

“ _Only at the beginning_ was more than enough,” he snapped, shoving past Gladio so that he was right within Prompto’s line of vision. For as intimidating as Gladio knew he could be, he’d never seen someone look as terrified as Prompto did in that moment.

“D-Did… Did something happen to Noct?” he stammered. The concern in his voice would have been more convincing if the pictures Gladio held weren’t practically burning holes in his fingers.

Ignis didn’t answer that one, although his expression said it all for him. Instead, he surveyed Prompto’s apparent desperation through narrowed eyes, and Gladio could imagine the same thoughts going through his head that were swirling around his own.

_What’s with the act?_

They knew what Prompto was now—maybe not specifics, but enough to realize that they’d been duped for five years while he relayed the information his kennel handler had sent him to get. There was no point trying to save himself by pretending to be upset, especially not here. Prompto wasn’t an idiot. In spite of all the times Gladio had called him one, he _wasn’t_. He knew as well as they did that there was no use keeping that traitorous mask of his in place when his secrets were staring them in the face.

His eyes still gleamed with a frightened yet oddly _determined_ light that Gladio had only ever seen when Prompto was trying to come up with a good comeback without getting punched for his efforts. Gladio would have found it admirable—five years ago.

“What happened? Where’s Noct?” demanded Prompto, straining against his bonds as though acting worried might break them.

“What do _you_ care about ‘im?” Gladio shot back without a moment’s hesitation. That didn’t dissuade Prompto, though. If anything, that fire in his gaze grew a little more heated.

“He’s my _friend_!” he insisted vehemently. Ignis opened his mouth, probably to deliver the kind of scathing retort Gladio wanted to, but he added in a rush, “I thought he’d be safe in Insomnia.”

Snorting, Gladio folded his arms and asked incredulously, “You _do_ know who we’re dealing with here, right?”

A shudder had Prompto retreating the few inches he’d tried to move, his head bowed to avoid their gazes. Ignis wasn’t having any of it, though.

“If you were concerned about Noct’s safety, then you wouldn’t have sent these”—he nodded briskly at the balled up wad of paper in Gladio’s fist—“to begin with.”

“It was… It was just a mission…at first…” Prompto mumbled miserably, the words directed at the floor instead of them.

“At first?”

“Y-Yeah… I didn’t even know who Noct _was_ , just that I was supposed to be taking pictures of some prince.”

Ignis didn’t scoff, but it looked like it took a hell of a lot of effort for him to hold it back and replace it with a brusque, “Given your position, I should think you would know better than anyone that it’s never that simple.”

When Prompto winced without speaking, Gladio chimed in, “Not like it was that hard to figure out. Niflheim’s had it out for Lucis for _decades_.”

“And placing one of their operatives with the prince should have made it quite clear what your ultimate task was,” Ignis agreed with a shake of his head. “You truly expect us to believe that you had no idea what was going to happen?”

That one seemed to finally break through Prompto’s silence, and when his head shot up, Gladio was surprised to see that his mouth was hanging open in furious indignation that he had no damn right to feel.

“I didn’t know what Ardyn wanted with Noct!” he protested immediately.

“How could you not?” rejoined Ignis, his tone turning more vicious than Gladio had ever heard from him.

“I was just an infiltration unit! They don’t tell us all their secrets—it’s kinda not cool if you get caught.”

“Then that whole Tenebrae story?” growled Gladio, taking great pride in the way Prompto’s mouth snapped shut with a guilty grimace. “That shit about escaping and looking for a new life? It was just another one of Ardyn’s plans? _He_ was your goddamn _friend in a high place_?”

“He…” Prompto paused, looking away before he continued, “He said the king would never suspect someone from Tenebrae.”

“Damn right he didn’t,” he grumbled darkly.

The vindication he felt at having belatedly been proven right didn’t make him feel any less like grinding Prompto into dust. Gladio had told them all they weren’t taking him seriously enough; he’d _known_ there was something off about his sudden appearance, even though everyone said there was no evidence to back him up. He never should have believed Prompto’s stupid story, never should have taken his eyes off him for one second.

He had. He’d let himself be taken in by some sob story and the king’s assurances that Prompto was probably harmless. And now Gladio was paying for it—they all were.

He was supposed to be Noct’s Shield, yet he’d allowed this spy of the enemy to slip into Hammerhead and gain Noct’s trust. It hadn’t been a daemon or an army or even Ardyn himself—those would have been easier to anticipate. That had to have been why Ardyn used Prompto: no one would seriously suspect one fifteen-year-old kid.

_A kid…_

Gladio banished that thought automatically, inwardly berating himself for the twinge of pity he felt in his gut. Yeah, Prompto had been pretty young when he got to the outpost; they knew enough of the empire’s shady dealings that it came as no shock that they trained children to be spies and soldiers and whatever else they needed. That didn’t mean he had any excuse for what he’d done, whether it was only _at first_ or the whole time they’d known him. He was still a traitor. It was still his fault that Noct wasn’t here.

And it was his fault that they now had to add _breaking the news that his best friend was an imperial spy_ to their list of things Noct needed to know when he woke up.

 _If_ he woke up. Because Prompto was supposed to be the solution to their problems, not one of Niflheim’s pawns.

As usual, Ignis was not only thinking along the same lines, but he was five steps ahead of Gladio already. He leveled Prompto with his sternest glare, the one he’d used on Noct when the latter was trying to get out of doing his homework to hang out when Ignis insisted that they could do both. It was a pretty intimidating sight, no denying it, and Prompto seemed to shrink under the intensity of his gaze.

“If you truly meant Noct no harm,” Ignis began slowly, taking another step so that Prompto couldn’t tear his gaze away, “if you are truly concerned for his well-being, then I challenge you to prove it.”

“How?” he blurted out automatically, all his hesitation and stuttering gone.

“If there is _anyone_ that Noct grew close to in Hammerhead, anyone he showed even the slightest interest in, then you must tell us _now_.”

There was a beat of silence where Prompto didn’t seem to hear him, his face contorting into a puzzled frown as he tried to make sense of what it was they were asking. Admittedly, Gladio could see why: he knew Ignis was trying not to give anything away, but if Prompto really _didn’t_ know what it was Ardyn had been planning from the beginning, then that question probably sounded pretty insane. Leave it to Ignis to confuse him by attempting to be clever.

So, rolling his eyes, Gladio impatiently amended, “Did he have a crush on anyone?”

“A…crush?”

“You need me to explain it to you?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have sounded quite as forbidding as he knew he did, but Gladio didn’t bother softening his tone. They’d already been here too long; they were playing with fire sticking around when they didn’t know what it was Ardyn was playing at in bringing them here. Whether he’d wanted them to simply discover Prompto’s secret on their own or not, Gladio didn’t have any confidence that he would let them go without a fight. They needed to get a move on, sooner rather than later.

Luckily, Prompto took his silent warning for what it was and quickly answered, “Uh, no? Pretty sure that was all me.”

“I beg your pardon?” deadpanned Ignis. Gladio snorted before Prompto could do anything but stutter through a couple of aborted excuses.

“Guess his little thing for Cindy wasn’t a lie after all.”

“Ah, one of the few truths he’s told, then.”

Gladio had to hand it to him: when Ignis wanted his words to hurt, there was no defense for it. No one else could deliver a blow like that and turn away as if they’d just been discussing the weather, leaving a crestfallen and completely _gutted_ Prompto in his wake. Of course, it wasn’t like they were doing any better. Prompto obviously hadn’t meant to shatter their hopes with such a simple answer, yet here they were. The one person they thought might give them the clue they needed to help Noct was just as useless as they were. They might as well have stayed in Lucis; all that their journey to Niflheim had given them was more questions and pain than they’d been dealing with before. That wasn’t going to save Noct, and apparently neither were they.

There was no talking through their next moves or brainstorming the options they had left. There was no stopping or waiting or thinking. There was only turning towards the door with the broken realization that this was it: the game was over, and Ardyn had actually won. It should have made him angry—angrier than he already was—but Gladio couldn’t bring himself to feel more than numb disbelief that they’d come all this way for nothing. Hell, he didn’t even regret not beating Prompto’s face in at least a little before they left. It wouldn’t bring Noct back; it wouldn’t even help him feel better. All it would do was break yet another thing that they would never be able to fix.

Just as he was about to haul his sword out the door and slam it shut behind him, a hushed question stopped them in their tracks. It wasn’t a plea for them to wait or let him go or help him when he damn well didn’t deserve it. Prompto wasn’t begging them or trying to trick them any more than he already had. What he did say, however, made Gladio’s grip on the bars falter before he could shore up his resistance.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

Blinking, Gladio caught Ignis’s eye, and they stared at each other for an immeasurable moment. That wasn’t the voice of an imperial spy who was proud of what he’d done, nor did it sound like one of Ardyn’s brainless minions gloating about what they’d accomplished.

It was _Prompto_. It was the guy who snapped pictures at the worst possible times, laughed at the corniest jokes, and was just about the only person who appreciated Ignis’s puns even if he put up a good show of groaning at each one. It was the guy who helped Cid around the garage when he didn’t have to, eyed Cindy from afar without ever making a move, and went running around Leide to bring Nyx the ingredients Takka had forgotten so he wouldn’t have to grab them himself.

It was the guy who had cracked open Noct’s shell and gotten him out in the world again. It was the guy who had stuck with him through thick and thin.

It was the guy who had gone out of his way to act like Noct’s friend when all he needed were a few damn pictures.

A kid. A brainwashed, indoctrinated kid.

_Goddamn it._

Almost before he realized what he was doing, Gladio whirled around and stomped over to Prompto, slamming his hand against the red button over his shoulder. The restraints instantly released and dumped him onto the concrete floor with a yelp of mingled surprise and pain, but Gladio didn’t wait for him to register what was going on as he grunted, “Get the hell up.”

He didn’t. Prompto simply stared at him, sputtering, “W-What?”

“I _said_ , get the hell up,” he huffed, already heading for the door again. “We’re leaving.”

“B-But—”

“Unless you’d rather stay here,” suggested Ignis from where he was waiting for them further along the passage.

That got him moving. Gladio could hear him scrambling to keep up without having to glance back at him. If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep going. There were far too many emotions in his head that all wanted to be channeled into action, and looking at Prompto would only bring them to the fore. They didn’t have time for that, just like they hadn’t had time to ponder their guilt over Noct earlier. Action— _action_ was what they needed right now, which was why Gladio took a deep breath and held it when he heard Prompto speak up behind him.

“Why are you guys doing this?” he asked so quietly that Gladio had to strain to hear. “I’m a Niff, and I lied to you. I lied to everybody…”

“You don’t gotta remind us,” grumbled Gladio irately. Ignis, on the other hand, took a different tack as he led the way back towards the central elevator.

“Regardless of your motives, your… _presence_ was good for Noct,” he explained tonelessly, narrowly avoiding the word _friendship_ , from the sound of it. “Consider this our repayment for your efforts.”

Grunting in reluctant affirmation, Gladio tossed a glance over his shoulder to clarify, “We’ll help you get outta here. After that, you’re on your own.”

“Y-Yeah, sure… Thanks.”

Neither of them bothered to answer, focusing instead on retracing their steps as quickly as possible. That niggling voice in the back of Gladio’s head didn’t like this: for all they knew, Prompto would betray them yet again. Maybe that was Ardyn’s plan, and Prompto was just biding his time until he could walk them straight into whatever the _real_ trap was. It wouldn’t surprise him at all if the mage thought they were so sentimental that they’d run right into it without question.

Weren’t they, though? Wasn’t that exactly what he’d done in letting Prompto go rather than leaving him to rot in this place like he deserved? Yeah, he’d been good for Noct—there was no denying that no matter how many lies he’d told or secrets he’d kept. Still, a traitor like him was better off where he couldn’t cause any more trouble, not following the people he’d stabbed in the back to freedom.

Then again, they couldn’t really say much there. They’d betrayed Noct too, even if it _was_ in a different way. When Gladio boiled it all down, it added up to the same thing: Noct never would have gotten into this mess if it weren’t for them. If Prompto hadn’t been spying, if Ignis hadn’t ticked him off, if Gladio hadn’t pushed him even further away… They all had a hand in what happened, as much as he hated to admit it. If this was the only thing they could make right, if setting Prompto free because it was what Noct would have wanted was all they could accomplish here today, then at least it was better than nothing.

At least when they got back to Insomnia and their prince never woke up, they could fool themselves into believing that the shit they’d done to try to help him was worth it.

Gladio was so absorbed in his own regrets that he didn’t notice Ignis had stopped, not until a tentative tap on his shoulder caught his attention.

“What’s up, Iggy?” he inquired, although he really didn’t need to when he caught a glimpse of what Ignis was staring at.

The vast hub they’d seen earlier was still abandoned, only this time, it wasn’t exactly as they’d left it. This time, the steel door to the central dome was open, giving them an unobstructed view of what Gladio guessed was the throne of Niflheim.

He called it a throne, but it looked nothing like King Regis’s. While he couldn’t make out much from this distance, it was easy to tell that the emperor’s ego certainly hadn’t convinced him to make his seat of power any more intimidating. A red carpet led to what was basically just a chair—a fancy chair, but a chair nonetheless. It was draped in crimson tapestries that clashed with the geometric black marble that flanked it, adding to the overall impression that the Keep had been thrown together without much thought to fashion so much as function. Wouldn’t want to flout imperial tradition by making it too fancy or anything.

It wasn’t the seat itself that had him narrowing his eyes and tightening his grip on his sword, but the white-clad figure _sitting in it_. As far as he could tell, Ardyn’s magic was still in effect; if it wasn’t, they would have already run into trouble by now. Still, there was something _off_ about the whole thing, something that made the hair on the back of Gladio’s neck stand up.

Ignis was right there with him, unsheathing his daggers again and cautiously approaching the throne ahead of them. It was sheer force of habit that had Gladio stepping in front of Prompto as they followed suit—he wasn’t armed, after all. What was the point in freeing him only to let something happen now? Talk about a waste.

It had nothing to do with the way Prompto cringed to see the emperor or how his stilted steps indicated that he would have preferred escaping to investigating. Nope, nothing to do with that.

“We all good?” Gladio called quietly, narrowing his eyes when Ignis didn’t automatically answer. “Specs? He still frozen?”

A few seconds passed in silence before Ignis turned around to look at him, the corners of his mouth angled down in what Gladio would have called frustration if it weren’t for the urgency in his gaze.

“Freezing the dead would be rather unnecessary.”

“The hell?!” he exclaimed, springing forward to see for himself.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to get eyes on the emperor to know that he was gone: the smell practically screamed it. Covering his nose and mouth, Gladio glared past Ignis in utter disbelief at the sight of the enemy they’d all feared for as long as he could remember, emaciated where his decaying body was slumped over the arm of the only thing he’d ever cared about.

It was unreal. For a minute, it didn’t even compute. How the hell did they not know that one of their most dedicated adversaries had died? He couldn’t even make the excuse that it must have been recent, because the state of the guy _clearly_ told him that he’d kicked it a while ago. If that was the case, then how had their intelligence missed it? How had they been blind to the fact that the empire’s sudden silence meant that something was stinky behind imperial borders—literally?

Unless even the people didn’t know. Was that why Ardyn had brought them here—to show them that _he_ was the one in charge of Niflheim? That no one was the wiser or even capable of stopping him? Was this all some convoluted plot to make them realize that saving Noct was never going to happen?

Gladio wasn’t sure, but there was one thing he could say with total certainty: there wouldn’t be any waiting to see what happened when Aldercapt died. There wouldn’t be any turf wars or savage scrambling to the top.

The emperor kept the chair, but Ardyn sat the throne.

“Did you know about this?” Ignis suddenly inquired, and Gladio tore his eyes away from the smelly Niff bastard to see him watching Prompto with a frown.

The latter shook his head, gaze locked on his former boss as he replied, “Not a clue. Never met the guy.”

In spite of himself, Gladio snorted. “Real organized empire you got here.”

“Easy there, tough guy,” Prompto retorted. Seeming to realize a moment too late that he’d slipped into habits that didn’t apply anymore, he quietly added, “I wasn’t even raised here, and the emperor wasn’t about to come all the way out to the facility just to see some grunt.”

“Not even the grunt that was supposed to spy on the prince of Lucis?”

Huffing a sheepish laugh, Prompto scratched the back of his neck and shrugged. “ _Especially_ not that guy. My guess? He wouldn’t want to get involved in case the king found out. Besides, Ardyn was the one who was pushing for that.”

There was a shock. He’d been behind everything else, so it stood to reason that the emperor didn’t have quite as much control over his territory as they’d all thought. Gladio _almost_ felt sorry for him— _almost_.

Ignis hummed in thought, but they never got the chance to hear what he was going to say. One minute, everything was quiet—the next, all hell broke loose.

“Watch out!” Gladio bellowed, shoving Prompto roughly out of the way and swinging his blade up to block the lance that came rocketing towards them a fraction of a second later. The force behind it took him off guard, sending him staggering backwards. It was only a moment, but it was just enough for their attacker to wheel around, thrusting her weapon straight at his head.

Ignis was there in a flash, one dagger diverting the spear while the other was aimed sharply at their opponent’s throat. That was all the opening Gladio needed to duck out of the way, rearrange his grip on his greatsword, and swing it in a wide arc that should have sliced her in two.

Whoever she was, she was a damn good fighter. Anticipating his every move, she leapt over his attack and rolled to her feet on the other side of the throne room.

“The hell are _you_ supposed to be?” Gladio demanded, eyeing her costume with what would have been amusement if she hadn’t just tried to stick a blade through his forehead.

Behind the black, barred helmet she wore, he heard a dry chuckle as she shot back, “The welcome party.”

With that, she dove towards them again, and Gladio shoved the other two aside to meet her head on. Now that he was prepared, he was relieved to find that she wasn’t as tough as she’d seemed before. All he had to do was shift his stance the right way and rotate his arms, sending her reeling from the full brunt of his weight when he threw himself forward.

If it were any other opponent, he would have been able to pin them easily from there. This bitch, however, had a few tricks up her sleeve that he had to grudgingly respect, one soldier apparently to another.

Before he had a chance to follow through on a downward strike, she rolled out of his way, his sword instead clanging against the concrete floor where she’d been a moment ago. Something firm wrapped around his ankle in the same instant, and it was all he could do not to lose his footing when her swift kick threatened to sweep his legs right out from under him. It was sheer luck that kept him on his feet, his hand reaching out to close around her heeled boot. With a grunt of exertion, he swung around, dragging her across the floor and sending her careening towards the throne and its occupant.

It would have been too satisfying to see her wrestling with a corpse, so of course, she managed to catch herself just in time to avoid Aldercapt’s perch. That damn lance of hers had to be made out of something strong to slice right into the concrete like that, halting her progress so that she could swing around and land on her feet.

Gladio practically heard the smirk in her voice as she taunted him, “Wow, and here I thought the prince’s Shield was supposed to be tough. Looks like you’ve got some work to do, junior.”

There was no time for him to respond, no time for him to think or move to defend his pride against her verbal assault. As he was hefting his greatsword around to attack again, blaring sirens cut through the otherwise silent Keep. In their distraction with the emperor, Gladio distantly realized that they hadn’t noticed the greenish tinge to the air receding or the strange stillness around them beginning to fade away. The clock had apparently restarted, and with it, they were losing their chances of getting to the train before it left them behind. And he cared about that—he _did_.

But this bitch was going _down_.

“Leave it, Gladio!” shouted Ignis from behind him. “We must go!”

“You guys get a head start,” he growled, taking a few steps towards their opponent while his brain sifted through all the strategies he’d memorized in search of the perfect one.

The opportunity was snatched from him in the blink of an eye. She made the first move, one so swift that he could only see a blur of motion before she lobbed her lance towards his head again.

Gladio dodged to the side, hitting the ground hard and using his momentum to launch himself towards her before she had a chance to retrieve her weapon. It was with a grim sense of satisfaction that his attack met its target, and they went crashing to the floor in a tangled mess of limbs. Somehow, though, he messed up. Whether it was his trajectory or that she was just _that_ good, they rolled around until he was on the bottom, his adversary pinning him from above.

“You should probably listen to your friends, you know,” she lilted. Now that they were close enough, he could _definitely_ see her smirk through that stupid helmet of hers.

She was lucky to be wearing it, because just before she could land a punch in his face, one of Ignis’s daggers caught her in the side of the head. Her armor was thick, and it bounced off the side with a reverberating _clang_ , but it was enough to catch her off guard. Half a second later, a blur of blond and black struck her from the side, slamming her into the throne so hard that Gladio could hear the air leave her lungs.

It was difficult to reconcile this Prompto—this stony-faced, ruthless Prompto that snatched Ignis’s weapon from the floor and brandished it at their opponent with deadly intent—with the one who had spent the last five years in Hammerhead. In that moment, Gladio could see the purpose he had been trained for as clear as day: infiltrate, debilitate, and execute. There was no mistaking it, and for the briefest instant, Gladio wasn’t looking at a Prompto that was helping him. No, he was seeing a Prompto that had Noct pinned behind the garage, a knife to his throat and Ardyn’s words on his lips. He was seeing a Prompto that could have and _would_ have slaughtered their prince and friend without a second thought.

He was seeing a Prompto that had chosen not to.

That was the same decision he made now: he didn’t finish the job. He didn’t ram Ignis’s dagger through her neck the way Gladio expected him to, nor did he kick her when she was down just for the sake of it. Instead, he backed away with his appropriated weapon still outstretched, jerking his head towards the door.

“Come on, tough guy—it’s time to get outta here!”

Gladio stared hard at him for a few seconds, the fury he’d felt when she brought up his own failures draining away and leaving only his sense of duty behind. He couldn’t die here— _they_ couldn’t die here. He and Ignis needed to get back to Insomnia, and Prompto… Well, it didn’t really matter what he did, but they hadn’t rescued his ass just to get theirs killed now. Not even for his pride, as much as it was aching.

So, nodding slowly, Gladio grabbed his sword from where it had landed and sprinted towards the door with Prompto in tow. The ringing echoes of dozens of armored footsteps followed them, as did their unknown opponent’s laughter, but they didn’t turn back.

They’d gotten what they came for, and now, their time was up.

 

***

 

“Bravo! Well done!”

Ardyn applauded when Commodore Highwind stomped into his office, her expression flat. Perhaps he should have expected such a reaction: after all, it appeared that the prince’s fools had done quite an impressive job. There was an almost unnoticeable red mark at her temple where she’d been caught by one of their weapons, and she was walking with an unmistakable limp. Having witnessed the great oaf tackling her to the ground, he supposed that she had escaped in better condition than anyone else in the same position might have hoped for.

Even so, Ardyn had known for years that Aranea was of a vain sort, and her defeat must not have come easy. That was why he felt little need to reprimand her when she glared down at him in unbridled disdain, her palms coming to rest against the front side of his desk.

“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to play with your food before you eat it?” she sneered at him, to which he merely waved a hand in casual acknowledgement.

“I confess, I do rather enjoy the chase—and such an inspiring one, at that! Your performance was commendable, Commodore,” he simpered instead. It did nothing to ease the severity of her gaze, although he noticed a subtle shift from distaste to curiosity that quite intrigued him. That natural proclivity for exploration, after all, was one of the reasons why he had not disposed of her after seeing to the emperor’s demise. It was so bolstering, so interesting…

So _useful_.

“I thought you didn’t want them figuring out how to wake Prince Charming,” Aranea remarked, straightening up and rolling her eyes. “Or sleeping beauty, I guess.”

“Quite right,” Ardyn confirmed as he stood from his seat with a gentle flourish of his robes. Strolling casually around his desk, he gestured vaguely towards the window and elaborated, “I am afraid his royal retainers have one last errand that I require of them.”

“Errand, huh?”

“Indeed.”

Despite the quirked eyebrow that earned him, Ardyn did not explain further. He was, for all intents and purposes, the leader of Niflheim, whether the citizenry knew it or not. Aranea was one of the few who recognized that the empire’s power had shifted hands, and as such, she was well aware that he was not beholden to anyone for anything that he did not expressly intend to provide. Others had not been so intelligent, nor had they lived long enough to understand their position in the new empire he was creating.

The commodore, on the other hand, was nearly as cunning as himself. He had great hopes for her, so long as she did not interfere overmuch and remembered her place. For now, it appeared that she was not willing to provoke the ire of those more powerful than her twice in one day, which was encouraging to say the least.

_Such a remarkably bright woman._

Instead of inquiring after his motives, undoubtedly knowing that she would not receive any information worth examining further, Aranea merely sighed, “So, that’s it, then? We just let them run home to Lucis?”

“For now,” lilted Ardyn, lifting a finger in warning. “Once their task is complete, however, you may dispatch of them as you see fit. They must _not_ be allowed to return to Insomnia. Do I make myself clear?”

He needn’t have asked. Aranea was already out the door when she called over her shoulder, “Crystal.”

Ardyn smirked. Such a bright woman indeed.

“Quite.”


	26. Shattered Bonds

_It hurt._

_Everything hurt._

_The worst part wasn’t the pain so much as the fact that Noctis couldn’t do anything about it. There was no getting comfortable, no running from the sensation that he was being torn to shreds by a million invisible claws. There was only holding his breath and taking it until the next time he could drift away, however short that might be._

_He’d long since given up believing that if he told himself the monsters weren’t real, then they wouldn’t bother him anymore. Their voices had laughed at him too often, reminding him that they were here when no one else was. And…well, they had a point. As Noctis floated through the darkness, consciousness coming in spurts that he could only half-remember the next time his awareness returned, it always struck him that it would have been just him if it weren’t for the shadows. They spoke to him, they followed him, they kept him company. It was a feeble comfort, and there were definitely moments when he wished that they would simply leave him alone, but he also hated to admit that he didn’t mind them as much when the oblivion he equally craved was the only alternative._

_Then something sharp would dig into his chest, reiterating that they weren’t his friends, and the vicious cycle began again._

_Because his friends were the worst offenders. The people who had called themselves his family and said they loved him ripped into him the most. They grabbed his limbs and pulled him in every direction; they tore at his heart and mind and body until he was raw with sensations and emotions that he didn’t want to feel. The monsters hurt him, but they weren’t the ones destroying him from the inside out._

_They spoke from the shadows, those voices that sounded so much like the friends he’d lost. Now that the floodgates of his memory had been tossed open, there was no closing them again. He could mentally throw himself against the doors, pounding and shoving and screaming at them to shut out all the things he desperately wanted to forget, but they remained stubbornly ajar. Through that broken window to his own soul, the people he’d once cared about whispered truths and what he futilely wished were lies._

_They scoffed at the idea that Cid Sophiar, one of the most renowned mechanics in Lucis and a technological prodigy, would ever willingly take him in without compensation from the king. They rolled their invisible eyes in vile amusement that he’d ever thought Nyx was his friend, his brother, when he’d been exiled from his own home purely to keep Noctis safe. They sneered in condescension that he could expect more from anyone who was bound to him by duty, by necessity, by loyalty to a family he had never met._

_They reminded him that Ignis had been nothing more than his babysitter, his royal caretaker to teach and coddle him._

_That Gladio was just his bodyguard, the one tasked with his protection no matter what._

_That Prompto, for as innocent as he’d seemed, was a spy sent to hurt him—to keep tabs on him—to let the king’s enemies know when was the proper time to strike._

_With each new voice, with every one he’d thought cared about him once upon a time, it was always the same—Uncle Cid, Nyx, Crowe, the king, the guys. None of them had been there for_ him _, they said. There was work to do, they said. It was simply necessary, they said._

_It had all been a lie, they said._

_And how could he argue as he drifted through the abyss? How could he deny that Ignis had spent years guiding him in more ways than any friend should have had the patience for? How could he ignore that Gladio had put teaching him how to defend himself above any of the other things Noctis would rather have done as a kid, even in spite of his distaste for fighting? How could he claim to know where Prompto’s innumerable photographs had gone when they left Hammerhead or that his mysterious past was nothing to fear?_

_Teachers and guards and hidden puppeteers that pulled his strings when he’d thought his decisions were his own—that was all they were. Every single one of them had been leading him towards a destiny he could not comprehend, an end that he wasn’t sure he wanted. They’d stolen his life, and instead of admitting their crimes, they’d smiled and acted as though nothing was wrong._

Everything _was wrong. Noctis could feel it in his bones, in the ache of his muscles, in the way his heart seemed to lag behind with the knowledge that beating would only prolong this festival of torment. For all he knew, there was still more waiting to burst forth from the shadows. After all, he’d believed that he’d discovered all his friends’ secrets, but now there was Prompto. The last person he thought had been honest with him was just like the rest—worse, even._

_The monsters were better. They’d never meant anything to him. They’d never smiled at him and made him think they gave a damn. They’d never made him…_

_No. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore._

_Just the pain._

_It was the only constant, and that was more comforting than he knew it should be. But if he couldn’t drift away, if the monsters wouldn’t just let him die already, then he had to take it where he could find it. Otherwise, he’d go insane on top of everything else._

_In fact, he probably already was. Maybe he’d been in the darkness so long that his mind was playing tricks on him, or perhaps it was simply wishful thinking letting him have his way when there was no chance of it happening. Whichever it was, he could think of no other explanation for the soft breeze that suddenly ruffled his hair or the prickling tickle of grass against his cheek making his nose itch. There was no other reason why he’d see light on the other side of his closed eyelids, tantalizing and enticing and forbidding all at once. There was nothing else that could silence the monsters and his former friends alike, leaving him surrounded by agonizingly blissful silence._

_And it didn’t hurt. In spite of the residual ache in his chest, in spite of his ragged breathing and the stinging pain that was only just starting to recede from his muscles, it_ didn’t hurt _._

_If this was what it felt like to go crazy, then it wasn’t so bad at all. If this was what it felt like to go crazy, then maybe he wouldn’t mind staying here awhile…_

_Breathing a sigh of relief, Noctis turned his face towards the soft cushion of dirt and tucked his legs beneath him. It was a terrible idea—one of his worst, as a matter of fact—but he couldn’t help allowing himself to pretend that he was curled up under the covers in his bed at home. It was warm there, too, and the air was as familiar to him as what he was breathing right now. He could almost picture it: rolling over to see the sun beginning to rise over Longwythe Peak in the distance, the dawn drowning out the patterns that a painted headlight threw against the walls…_

_Carbuncle was even there, a fluffy ball of synthetic fur cuddled close to his chest as he slept to keep the bad dreams at bay._

…Wait…

_Just as the picture seemed to complete itself in his mind’s eye, it was shattered by a soft squeal and sudden wriggle of movement beneath his arm. Groaning, Noctis desperately reached for his memories where they floated beyond his grasp, a distant yet sharp pain stabbing him in the chest—_

_Then a warm little nose poked into the side of his cheek._

_Noctis gasped, his eyes flying open as he scrambled upright. It was like waking from a nightmare, and for a moment, he stared sightlessly at his surroundings without comprehending where he was. That place in his head had seemed so real—_ was _so real—yet there was no getting there. As his consciousness slowly returned to him, it was with a pang of loss that he recalled there was no going back. Hammerhead was far off from him, his childhood home stripped away as a new and terrifying future loomed ahead. Everything he’d known had been left behind, replaced by a stranger who said he loved him and friends who weren’t what he’d thought. All he knew, all he had, all he_ was _—everything had changed until he was as sure of himself as he was of the place he’d ended up in._

_A glade full of blue flowers, surrounded by ruins that he couldn’t quite see through the mist that obstructed the horizon from view. It seemed familiar, yet at the same time, Noctis knew he’d never been here before. In a sense, it was the same as that vision of home: close enough to touch, but too far distant to ever truly reach._

_But he wasn’t alone. Unlike the cold palace he’d been taken to—_ when _had he been there again?—he had company here. Warm eyes stared at him from a white, furry face, and Noctis found himself extending a hand to pet the creature before he’d even decided to move._

_“Carbuncle?” he murmured, blinking in confusion. This couldn’t be right: he’d only ever seen the real Dream Guardian, the one that practically purred at his touch and leapt into his lap, when he was asleep. But he wasn’t sleeping…was he?_

_If Carbuncle noticed his unease, he didn’t comment on it. Rather, he propped his front paws on Noctis’s chest and exclaimed in that familiar, high-pitched voice of his, “You remember me this time!”_

_“I…” Shaking his head, Noctis frowned and hesitantly inquired, “This…time?”_

_“Yup! You’ve been here before. Remember?”_

_For a second, Noctis contemplated telling him that he didn’t, that this place was as strange to him as the monsters that had plagued him for…however long he’d been floating through the void. The moment he opened his mouth, however, the words died in his throat because…they weren’t true. They couldn’t be. The blue of the flowers, the green of the grass, the impossible whiteness—he_ did _know it, although he couldn’t place where he’d seen it before. He had no memory of having been here in the past, yet it was familiar to him all the same._

_His puzzlement must not have been as subtle as he thought, because Noctis’s attention was drawn back to Carbuncle a few seconds later when the latter wriggled around in his lap and bumped a horned head against his chin._

_“It’s okay, Noct! You can just remember it this time instead.”_

_“Yeah, I guess. But…” He trailed off sheepishly, raising a hand to absentmindedly mess with his hair. “Where…are we, anyway?”_

_“This is the world of your dreams,” Carbuncle explained, tilting his head to the side when Noctis turned to stare at him._

_“So…I’m asleep?”_

_“That’s right. But you didn’t just doze off—you’re out cold.”_

_Noctis narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”_

_There was a pause where, if he didn’t know any better, he’d say that Carbuncle was trying to find a way not to answer. That didn’t make sense, though: not once in all the years he’d been saving Noctis from his nightmares had he neglected to respond to a question. He didn’t always understand what the Dream Guardian told him, of course, and there were times when Carbuncle flat out admitted that he had no idea himself. Still, he_ always _said something; he didn’t leave Noctis guessing, not if he could help it. Whatever he knew that Noctis didn’t must have been pretty bad, because it looked like he might break their unspoken agreement in this instance. That wasn’t going to fly, though: Noctis wanted those answers now more than ever, and since he could currently think straight without that increasingly familiar haze of pain stealing his ability to focus, he wasn’t about to let this go._

 _Just when he was considering asking again, however, the Dream Guardian hopped down from his perch and circled around to eye him with an unbelievably_ serious _gaze for an… Would it be wrong to call him an animal? He’d never gotten around to asking Ignis what exactly Carbuncle_ was _, if there was any way of describing him at all, but it just seemed wrong to use that particular word in connection with a creature of his talents._

_Noctis shook that realization from his mind before it could go any further. He didn’t need to know, just like he didn’t need to think about Ignis or Gladio or Prompto or anyone else. Doing so left a bad taste in his mouth that almost matched the twinge of pain that shot through him once again, a warning as much as a symptom. It was easier to focus his attention back on Carbuncle, who was watching him with his head bowed low and an oddly pitying expression on his face. In spite of the uncanny ability he’d always had to read Noctis’s thoughts, however, he didn’t say anything about the direction he had to know they’d taken. Instead, he belatedly offered the explanation Noctis had been waiting for._

_And it wasn’t what he’d anticipated, not that he’d known what to expect in the first place._

_“You’ve been asleep for a few days now.”_

_“Wait—_ days _?!” exclaimed Noctis, leaning forward until their noses were only a few inches apart. To his credit, Carbuncle didn’t even flinch at his outburst. He stood his ground, even going so far as to plop himself down in the grass as if he planned to have one hell of a long, exhausting conversation. If_ this _was how they were going to start, Noctis figured that wasn’t too far off the truth._

_“That’s right. You’ve always been a real sleepyhead, but this is different.”_

You can say that again.

 _Never mind the fact that Noctis didn’t even remember falling asleep in the first place—how had he slept for_ days _? The last time he’d done that was… Well, he didn’t like thinking about that, even now. It wasn’t a pleasant memory: lying in bed, alternating between the shadows of his nightmares and the ones that stared back at him from the corners of his room as though they might snatch him out of his bed when he least expected it. Yeah, he’d always valued a good nap; he’d been on the receiving end of more than one reprimand for shirking his responsibilities to grab a few winks in the past. Even so, even despite the holes in his memory that were yearning to be filled, he could say with almost absolute certainty that he hadn’t been sick or injured or anything else that would excuse him from existing for a_ few days _._

_Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. If it came down to an extended nap or dealing with stuff that he definitely wasn’t ready for, then he knew which one he’d prefer. Now if only the invisible monsters and creepy dreamscapes didn’t come with the territory…_

_Rather than voicing his thoughts, Noctis tried to concentrate on what was really important: namely, figuring out what the hell was going on before he inevitably got swept back into the darkness. Carbuncle was powerful, but whatever lived down there, whatever those monsters were… Noctis had never felt anything like it._

_So, he pushed aside the gnawing bitterness that still festered inside him to ask, “Why doesn’t anybody just…wake me up?”_

_The question sounded even dumber than he’d anticipated when he put it into words, but Carbuncle didn’t hold it against him. Actually, he didn’t say anything at all for a second, obviously trying to put together a reasonable response._

_But Noctis didn’t want_ reasonable _. He didn’t want more of the hesitant, careful bullshit that he’d been hearing lately. He didn’t want to be spoon-fed gentle platitudes that were supposed to make him feel better without actually solving anything. He wanted the truth, and he wanted it before their time was up._

_“Seriously, what the hell is going on?” he demanded, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them as he surveyed their surroundings through more skeptical eyes. “If this is my dream, then how come I don’t know where we are? Why haven’t I woken up yet?”_

_“It’s not that easy,” Carbuncle replied with a low sound in his throat. His look of remorse wasn’t enough this time, however._

_“Then, why can’t you get us out of here? It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”_

_The Dream Guardian faltered, glancing away for a second before slowly explaining, “Mages can’t break another mage’s spell. I can come see you, but I can’t do more than that.”_

_Blinking uncomprehendingly, Noctis hugged his knees a little tighter as something cold seemed to settle deep inside his chest. His voice lost a lot of the fire he’d managed to conjure when he tentatively inquired, “What do you mean? I’m under some kind of spell?”_

_“That’s why King Regis sent you to live in Hammerhead,” Carbuncle confirmed gently. Now that he’d found the words, it looked like there was no stopping him no matter how Noctis increasingly wished he could. “The fourth mage cursed you when you were still little. The king sent you away to keep you safe.”_

Safe? Are you kidding me right now?

 _Hadn’t they been down this road before? There were so many parts of Carbuncle’s story—if it could be called a story—that needed further explanation, but all Noctis could register was the fact that there were_ still _more lies waiting to be uncovered. He’d thought that he knew everything, that the king had told him all that there was to know about why he had chosen to give up his child instead of being there for him the way a father was supposed to. He’d thought that at the very least, he had a good handle on that situation, even if the rest was up in the air._

_He’d been wrong. Again._

_Carbuncle must have sensed his disappointment, because he yelped quietly before easing closer to press against the side of Noctis’s legs in his best imitation of a hug. If this were any other dream, he would have appreciated it more than he did now. Instead, he merely felt numb; his companion’s warmth seeped into his skin, but it didn’t make a dent in the chill that descended on every other part of him._

_When would all the secrets finally be revealed? When would he finally be able to take two steps without realizing that there was even more in his life that he hadn’t been made aware of? For as much as he had felt like he was drifting in Hammerhead, not sure of where he wanted to go or what he wanted to do with the rest of his life, it was nothing compared to this. All of a sudden, he was supposed to be a king someday and had been cursed to…_

_Sleep? What kind of curse was_ that _?_

_At this point, Noctis didn’t even want to know. Odds were, it was a lot more complicated than he could handle right now. Besides, the effects of the curse didn’t worry him nearly as much as who had cast it in the first place. Was theirs the voice that had been speaking to him all this time? Were they the one who controlled the monsters?_

_“I didn’t even know there was a fourth mage,” mumbled Noctis to his knees, raising his eyebrows at the way Carbuncle’s ears angled back like Umbra’s did if something irritated him._

_“Lots of people don’t.”_

_“Why not?”_

_Squirming uncomfortably, Carbuncle made an angry sound deep in his throat, but another voice replied, “He turned his back on the Six and was cast out by the gods.”_

_The speed at which Noctis whipped his head around was painful, and he rubbed his neck with a wince when he saw that they weren’t alone after all. A woman in white stood not far off, watching them with her hands clasped in front of her and a serene smile on her face as her blue eyes met Noctis’s. For a fleeting moment, he couldn’t place the twinge of familiarity that tickled the depths of his mind; he couldn’t make sense of the feeling of déjà vu that swept over him, telling him that they had been in this position before._

_And they had, he realized. When she took a few steps towards him, her gait as steady and unwavering as her gaze, it was like the fog had lifted so that he could see another girl—another time—another_ him _—_

_“Luna?” he asked uncertainly, not sure why that name sat on the tip of his tongue._

_It wasn’t wrong, though: their newest arrival nodded in confirmation, her smile widening as she lowered herself to the ground beside him. Noctis wanted to warn her not to, that her dress would get dirty if she sat in the grass, but she didn’t seem to care. If anything, she appeared perfectly at ease with the idea and held up a hand to stop him when he moved to stand._

_“Noctis,” she greeted him in kind, reaching out to stroke Carbuncle’s fur as though they weren’t in the middle of his dreams talking about some mage that had apparently decided to give the gods the finger._

And speaking of…

_“What do you mean, he turned his back on them?”_

_Sighing deeply, Luna’s smile faded slightly as she elaborated, “Ardyn Izunia was once on the side of the light, but his impurities made him greedy for power. Now, he is in thrall to darkness, wreaking havoc and spreading his scourge across Eos unchecked.”_

_“You…” Noctis trailed off, swallowing hard and forcing himself to grind out, “You mean the daemons?”_

_“Yes. They are more than merely his servants and spies: they are a part of him. In so many ways, he has become one with the darkness he wields.”_

_“But what could someone like that want with me?” he blurted out, utterly baffled. When Luna glanced away, her expression falling, Noctis pressed, “Why does he care about some random…prince?”_

_For a moment, he’d been about to say_ kid _. After all, that was still how he saw himself. The idea that he was royalty lingered in the back of his mind like some sort of surreal daydream, and it took more effort than he would have thought possible to alter his words at the last moment. If Luna noticed his hesitation, however, she didn’t call him on it or ask what was wrong. Rather, she took a deep breath before looking up at him again, her expression grim even though there was a light in her eyes that spoke of gentle determination._

_“King Regis would not stand by and allow him to destroy the kingdom of Lucis in pursuit of his own ends. He sought to protect his people from the Accursed’s blight, and in so doing, he invited retribution of a sort that only Ardyn was capable,” she told him, her tone full of approbation that Noctis wished he could share._

_There was no pride in his chest, though, no righteous approval for King Regis’s actions. Was fighting back the right thing to do? Yes. Was it necessary to protect his people, if Luna was to be believed? So it seemed. Still, a small, embarrassingly selfish part of himself couldn’t help the injustice that welled up inside him at the idea that fighting some mage he never had any chance against was more important to the king than his own son. Sure, he’d done what he could to protect Noctis by sending him away; he couldn’t deny that no matter how much he would have liked to. But he was left feeling the same as when he’d finished speaking with the man who should have been his father regardless: defeated, confused, and so very much alone._

_Whether it was the obvious slump of his shoulders or the way he dropped his chin onto his knees as though the effort of holding his head up was too much for him, Luna smiled sympathetically in the same moment that Carbuncle let out a little yelp of concern._

_“You think him foolish?” she inquired, soft and not at all as judgmental as he knew she should be._

_Shrugging a shoulder halfheartedly, Noctis racked his brains for an answer only to settle for, “I…don’t really know what I think anymore.”_

_That was true enough. At this point, he could hardly tell up from down let alone make sense of the cacophony of thoughts that swirled through his head with no rhyme or reason. Every time he turned around, it seemed like he was losing something else. Whether it was the people he’d grown to see as his family or just the sense of security that came from being surrounded by those who gave a damn about him, his coming of age had stripped him of everything that he thought he knew and left an abyss within him that ran deeper than the one he lived in now—the one this_ Ardyn Izunia _had laid out as a trap. And all for what? Revenge on the king for getting in his way? Whatever he’d done clearly hadn’t worked, so what was the point? The guy sounded like a powerhouse: Noctis didn’t remember the daemon that had attacked him very well, but the utter dread and terror that the memory of its mere_ presence _evoked in him even now was enough to make him hope that he never had to deal with its master. That the king had been brave enough to do so was admirable, he guessed._

_It was also stupid. It was also the reason he was in this mess, unsure of how to escape or if he wanted to when it wasn’t like there was anything in his life worth returning for. At least the shadows that surrounded him in oblivion were honest; at least they didn’t lie to him the way everyone else had._

_Everyone but Carbuncle and Luna._

_Frowning, Noctis peered at her out of the corner of his eye. This was the second time that Luna had spoken to him in his dreams, but there was no way that that should have been possible. Carbuncle was the Dream Guardian: it made sense that he would be able to find Noctis, even in the deepest darkness. Luna, on the other hand, didn’t have that power._

Unless…

_“You’re the Oracle, aren’t you?” he guessed. His confusion only deepened when she nodded._

_“I, too, have been blessed by the grace of the Six.”_

_It was hard to believe when she barely looked older than he was, but Noctis didn’t argue. Aside from the fact that he was hoping to draw them away from a conversation he definitely wanted to avoid for as long as possible, Lunafreya Nox Fleuret had been under imperial watch ever since Niflheim took over Tenebrae when he was a kid. If there was one thing she didn’t deserve, it was sarcastic comments._

_That realization didn’t sate his curiosity, though, so he tentatively continued, “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but isn’t the Oracle supposed to…heal people or something?”_

_“That is indeed my calling,” she confirmed, her eyebrows drawing together as she surveyed him perplexedly. Okay, apparently he was going to have to go there._

_“Then…how come you’re here? Not that I’m not grateful!” he hurried to reassure her. The way her pleasant smile never faltered for an instant was more unnerving than anything, and Noctis found himself sheepishly murmuring, “I just…would’ve thought you had people who needed your help.”_

_For a second, Luna didn’t answer, although her gaze was heavy enough that Noctis could practically feel it crushing him where he sat. There was no reason for it: her eyes were clear of any judgment, and it wasn’t like she’d reamed him for accusing her of not doing her duty. Far from it, actually. The warmth in her expression only grew, and Noctis could swear that it flowed from her fingers into his very soul when she laid her hand gently against his forearm._

_“Not all wounds can be seen,” she said by way of explanation. Noctis could tell that she meant her answer to be comforting, but all it did was yank the bottom out of his stomach._

_“You know the way out of here?” he inquired reluctantly, not sure whether he really wanted the answer or not. After all, the Oracle returning him to wherever it was he had fallen asleep meant having to face reality—he didn’t know if he was ready for that._

_Fortunately, he was proven wrong a moment later when Luna shook her head. It wasn’t the most uplifting thought, not when the sharp pain in his chest that accompanied the idea of waking up reminded him of what awaited him if he stayed. Still, putting off the time when he would have to deal with everything that had happened… Yeah, he was okay with that._

Un _fortunately, it looked like that wasn’t going to be in the cards._

_“Your friends fight for you as we speak,” Luna assured him as though that was supposed to make him feel better. “They are doing all they can to bring you home.”_

_Maybe it wasn’t the politest response to scoff skeptically—after all, she was both a mage_ and _a princess. Then again, he was supposed to be royalty as well, so there had to be some perks of the job._

_“Of course they are,” he muttered, more to himself than Luna._

_“You did not believe that they would?” she replied regardless._

_Taking a deep breath, Noctis let his knees drop and leaned forward onto his elbows, tearing a few blades of grass out of the ground as he retorted, “Isn’t that their job? To watch over the prince and keep him safe?”_

_“The duties they are honor bound to uphold are not the same as devotion to one who has earned it,” she pointed out, “just as loyalty to their prince does not mean they do not also care for you as their friend.”_

_“They sure have a funny way of showing it.”_

_“How do you mean?”_

_“All the lies?” he burst out, shaking his head and keeping his gaze resolutely set on the ground in front of him. “All the secrets? They had so many chances to tell me who they were—who_ I _was—but they didn’t.”_

 _He saw Luna shift closer in the periphery of his vision, but he didn’t look up. It was too humiliating, admitting these things to someone he barely knew—someone he technically_ didn’t _know, who had invaded his dreams to heal him of…what? The anger? The disappointment? The gnawing emptiness inside him at the mere thought of the people who used to be his friends? There was no way to fill that gap, at least none that involved Luna, and at this point he doubted whether anything could. It seemed to yawn within him: a chasm so deep there was no end, a longing so ingrained that it had wrapped itself around every bone and muscle until it was impossible to separate from himself. Every time he tried, it seemed to latch on tighter, digging into every inch of his body and threatening to strangle him._

_There was no healing that. There didn’t seem to be any surviving it either._

_But Luna was apparently as determined as Carbuncle not to let him sink into the darkness and just cease to exist the way he suddenly,_ desperately _wanted to._

_“It makes no difference that they wished only to protect you?” she asked quietly, not at all put off by his now sour mood._

_“How was it protecting me to not tell me what was going on? I may not be as strong as Gladio, but I can take care of myself.”_

_Admittedly, that was a bit of an understatement—he wasn’t anywhere near as strong as Gladio always had been. From the time they met, his former friend had oozed aggression and capability in a way Noctis never could. And that was fine by him: he didn’t want that, not even when he was a kid. He’d always admired how Gladio could weather anything without batting an eye, how he could hear the worst sort of news and keep going as if nothing had happened—but he’d never wanted to be Gladio. There was no chance that he’d ever be able to measure up to that no matter how hard he tried, so it wasn’t even worth attempting. Most days, he hardly understood how the guy who was apparently supposed to be his bodyguard could stand to be around someone as lacking as himself. He’d never say as much, especially not when he knew it would only end in assurances that he neither needed nor wanted, but the fact remained that he was far from the strong leader he was ostensibly destined to become._

_Seeming to sense his thoughts, Luna’s demeanor shifted from understanding to skepticism as she inquired, “Do you truly believe that Gladiolus would spend so much time with someone he deemed weak?”_

_A beat of silence, then, “If it was his duty, yeah.”_

_She didn’t have an answer prepared for that, although that came as no surprise to Noctis. He couldn’t bear to ask how she knew his former friends—he couldn’t bear the thought that she might actually have known them better all these years than he did. Of course, it didn’t seem like that was very hard these days, but that was a given at this point. Regardless of his own feelings on the matter or how familiar she was with them, there was no denying that where Gladio was concerned, his duty came before anything else. How many times had Noctis called him only to have to leave a voicemail because he was too busy doing his job? How many times had Gladio forced the issue when Noctis didn’t want to train—didn’t want to fight—didn’t want to try to hurt someone he saw as a friend and brother? When Gladio first started working (he assumed that the timing hadn’t been a lie, even if the Crownsguard was a far cry from the police force he’d described), it was all he’d talked about for months._

_Noctis couldn’t even blame him: he’d been training since he was a kid for that moment. It made total sense that his life would revolve around his work._

_Just like it used to revolve around Noctis when they were little. Just like it_ still _apparently revolved around Noctis, only this time, he didn’t doubt for a second that the reason was very different. The moment he set foot in the Citadel, the moment he was reintroduced to his former friend as his Shield instead, that had all changed. Noctis was now his job, even more so than he had been before, and he knew that Gladio would be there for him if for no other reason than to uphold his end of the deal he’d made with the king long ago. That was who he had always been, and while Noctis couldn’t fault him for it, he also wouldn’t allow himself to buy into Luna’s brittle assurances. Of course Gladio was going to try to help him; of course he’d be willing to keep so many secrets in the name of protecting him. Not doing so would mean failing in his duties, and Gladio would accept defeat when Altissia dried up._

_He could say the same for all of them. Ignis, with his devotion to perfection in everything he did; Nyx, with his carefully doctored stories and undoubtedly elite training. Even Prompto, that little voice in his head reminded him with a sneer, was not immune. His purpose might have been different, but as with the rest, Noctis was very much his job. Always had been. Always would be._

_Which was why he couldn’t help disdainfully shaking his head when Carbuncle interrupted his thoughts to say, “You should have more faith in your friends.”_

_“What friends?” he groused, his eyes resolutely focused on the blade of grass he was weaving between his fingers as he shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t even know them.”_

_“That’s not true!”_

_“Everything they’ve ever told me was a lie. How am I supposed to believe that they really are the same people?”_

_“By remembering that loyalty is not exclusive to duty,” Luna calmly interjected. The evenness of her tone was soothing, and Noctis found himself reluctantly glancing up at her as she continued, “Whatever their faults, surely you do not believe that the actions they took were meant to cause you pain.”_

_It took everything Noctis had not to tell her that that didn’t matter—they’d managed that regardless of what they meant to do. When he was a kid and knocked a headlight off Uncle Cid’s workbench, it hadn’t mattered at all that he didn’t_ mean _to do it; his lack of intent may have saved him from punishment, but he’d still earned one hell of a lecture about running in the garage. This was no different, albeit greater in scale: was he supposed to look the other way and say it was fine that the people he’d considered his closest friends had lied through their teeth every second they’d known each other?_

 _He couldn’t. He_ wouldn’t _._

 _He wasn’t the one at fault here. He wasn’t the one who’d pretended to be a different person, all to keep someone else from finding out his true identity. He wasn’t the one who had spent twenty years telling someone he cared only to later admit that it was all a sham, an imitation of reality that would disappear forever in the blink of an eye. That wasn’t on him, and he saw no reason why he should let it go just because they hadn’t_ meant _to upset him._

 _They had, more than words could say. And that pain, that agonizing loneliness, colored everything from the tone of his own thoughts to the sharp, stabbing pain that erupted in his chest with every breath he took. Thinking about them made it worse; reflecting on what he’d lost merely intensified everything he didn’t want to feel. It would have been so much easier to sleep—_ really _sleep, not this crap that the king’s enemy had bestowed on him. In sleep, he could escape all these complicated, oftentimes traitorous feelings. In sleep, he wouldn’t have to feel at all._

_In sleep, he didn’t have to hold conversations like this where someone tried to tell him he should forgive and forget as if their betrayals meant nothing._

_Noctis didn’t realize his eyes had slipped shut and he was beginning to drift off until a hand closed firmly around his wrist, almost pulling him over as it tugged him to the side. Blinking rapidly, he clumsily reached out to steady himself only to realize with a jolt that the ground wasn’t there—it was amorphous and cold, oozing between his fingers and threatening to drag him back into the void with the voices that haunted him—_

_But it didn’t. The dirt solidified beneath him once again, unyielding when his fingers dug into the soil to convince himself that he was still here for now. It took a few seconds for that to sink in, and when it did, Noctis felt his face flushing in embarrassment. The hand that still clutched his arm tightly reminded him that he had an audience; no matter how safe he felt with Carbuncle and Luna, that didn’t mean he wanted them seeing him at his lowest. It was bad enough that they had to be here, witnessing the messy flow of his thoughts and emotions as he unloaded it all onto them like a stupid, spoiled kid. It was bad enough that he’d spurned their attempts to comfort him when it was his fault they were wasting their time trying to reach him in the first place._

_If they held it against him, though, they definitely weren’t saying so. In fact, when he mustered the courage to hazard a glance at them, it was to find something that he hadn’t expected._

_Where Luna’s fingers circled his wrist, it was like staring into the sun. They were encompassed by a bright, warm glow that seemed to be doing its best to keep the shadows away from even the darkest corners of his own consciousness. It seeped into Noctis’s muscles, relaxing the tense set of his shoulders until he gradually lowered them from where they’d been hovering protectively around his ears. Even the sharp pains that he hadn’t realized were coursing through his veins—he was so used to them by now that they hardly registered—couldn’t stand up to its heat. In that instant, it was like Luna was trying to burn all the grief out of him, all the betrayal and disappointment and anger._

_He almost wished it worked._

_Instead, it only made him feel worse to raise his eyes to hers and be met with a solemn yet sympathetic gaze._

_“You mustn’t be afraid,” she murmured, slowly releasing his arm. Almost immediately, the light evaporated and took the warmth right along with it. “The daemons prey on it.”_

_“I’m not afraid,” replied Noctis automatically. Besides an almost imperceptible twitch of her eyebrow, Luna offered no indication that she was going to call him on his lie. Well, not until she pulled a small notebook from… Wait, had she been carrying that before?_

_He didn’t get a chance to ponder it when, in the next second, Luna carefully deposited the journal into his lap as though it were more valuable than all the jewels and gil in Eos. By all accounts, it didn’t look_ that _special: its battered cover was bent at the corners, and there was some wear along the leather seams. In spite of its weathered (well loved?) appearance, however, the gold ornamentation on the front was flawless in its depiction of a bird soaring high over the same flowers that blossomed around them._

_“What’s this?” he asked, turning the notebook over in his hands with a frown._

_Luna didn’t answer until he turned towards her, a sad smile twitching at the corners of her lips as she explained, “You fear to open your heart to those who care for you in the hopes of protecting yourself from them. The Accursed’s darkness has fed on that fear, blinding you to the truth and imprisoning you in your own despair.”_

_Flinching, Noctis ducked his head, but she wasn’t finished._

_“Your friends fight for you, but they cannot break through the shadows. Only you can do that, Noctis.”_

_“How?” he whispered in spite of himself—in spite of the shameful, cowardly fact that he hadn’t even decided whether he_ wanted _to break through them yet._

_When Luna tenderly laid a hand on his arm again, he could tell that she knew what he was thinking. Maybe she didn’t get all the details, but it was obvious that she was able to sense the indecision pouring off of him in waves. After all, it wasn’t like he was trying to hide it: not putting his thoughts into words didn’t make him any less transparent. If his mind wasn’t twisted and tied in knots, if it wasn’t torn between wanting to wake up and wanting to run from reality forever, then he wouldn’t have sat there in silence, fiddling with the corner of the journal to avoid meeting his companions’ eyes._

_This time, she didn’t try to force him. She simply nodded towards the notebook and murmured, “Perhaps you should see for yourself.”_

For myself… Right…

 _Taking a deep breath, Noctis clutched the book so hard that it hurt. Whatever was inside… Well, he wasn’t positive that he wanted to see it. He could already feel the ghostly pain that came from remembering his friends and all they had done beginning to creep back into his chest; he could already hear that voice—_ Ardyn _, he guessed—taunting him for believing that they could ever care about him as much as he’d fooled himself into thinking they had. It hurt, and he was so tired of hurting—he was so tired in general…_

_But Luna was waiting. Carbuncle was waiting. They’d both come here to help him, and it would be beyond ungrateful of him not to at least take a look at what she was offering. If he didn’t want it and chose to let the darkness take him, then at least they wouldn’t be able to blame themselves for it. That would be his choice, for better or worse._

_So, taking a deep breath, Noctis steeled himself before opening the front cover of the notebook and flipping to the first page._

_“What the hell?!” he gasped, bringing it up to his face as though getting a closer look would help him understand how in the world he was seeing…_

_Himself. A way smaller version, but himself nonetheless._

_It was a photograph, one that he was positive had never actually been taken: it was too crisp and clear even though half of Uncle Cid’s rushed pictures ended up a little blurred at the edges. Besides, the memory itself was as fresh in his mind as though it had happened yesterday, and he knew for a fact that his uncle hadn’t been there. He’d been down in the garage, as usual, working on cars with Cindy while Noctis played upstairs with Ignis and Gladio. He called it playing, anyway, but this visit had been different from the others._

_He must have been about six years old—old enough that he’d been friends with them for a few months, but not too old to sit in Gladio’s lap while Ignis meticulously sewed a split seam back together on his stuffed Carbuncle’s tail. That hadn’t been the plan for the day; in fact, they hadn’t known that his oldest friend was hurt at all when they arrived. Noctis hadn’t had a chance to tell them, nor would he have been able to find the words at that age. It was difficult enough when he’d woken up a few mornings prior and run to Uncle Cid in tears because the stuffing was falling out—Carbuncle was bleeding to death in the only way a toy could. His uncle had never been great with things like that, though; if Noctis found a hole in his clothes, Uncle Cid would simply order him something new. But there was no replacing Carbuncle, so the best he could manage was wrapping a bandage around the site of the damage as though that was going to help._

_When Ignis got there, he hadn’t waited. He hadn’t asked. He’d simply taken Carbuncle from him while he was napping on the couch and gotten straight to work._

_Noctis remembered waking up in a bleary panic, irrationally fearing that someone had thrown his first friend away because that was what you did with old, broken toys. It wasn’t until Gladio had practically sat on him and muttered that Ignis was trying to fix him that Noctis had caught sight of his other friend, cross-legged on the floor with Carbuncle in his lap and his tongue poking out from between his teeth as he put his fancypants training to good use._

_As a kid, it seemed to take forever for him to finish, and Gladio kept pulling him back to sit in his lap with a gruff, “He can’t finish with you hangin’ on ‘im.”_

_Huffing a laugh at the memory, Noctis shook his head in confusion. He hadn’t thought about that in so long—he hadn’t needed to when he had Ignis and Gladio by his side. Now, however, there were tears welling in his eyes at the sight of them the way they used to be: brothers, just as Gladio had promised not long after they met. The lies had been there, as had the secrets, but they were far away. He hadn’t been lonely; he hadn’t been clinging to Carbuncle for companionship so much as mere comfort anymore. In that moment, with his thumb edging dangerously close to his mouth in his six-year-old anxiety and Ignis’s clear dedication to getting his task right, he’d thought that no one else in the world could have it better than he did._

_What he wouldn’t have given to go back to those days of blissful ignorance._

_He couldn’t, though, and he didn’t want to cry about it in front of Luna and Carbuncle. Blinking back his tears, he tried to ignore the way his voice cracked when he inquired, “How did you get this?”_

_“I didn’t,” she replied serenely, her smile unwavering when he turned a baffled frown on her._

_“They’re your memories,” interjected Carbuncle before he had a chance to ask what she meant. When Noctis glanced down at him, he propped his front paws on Noctis’s knee and elucidated, “This is the world of your dreams, remember?”_

_“Uh…yeah?” It was kind of hard to forget that, all things considered._

_“This journal is full of your most special memories, the ones deep down inside that mean more than anything to you.”_

_Nodding, Luna added, “Neither of us can see what you do, Noctis. To us, the pages are blank.”_

_The sense of relief Noctis felt at that was quickly eclipsed by the idea that_ this _was what his heart wanted him to see. Hadn’t it learned its lesson? Hadn’t it figured out that it was right all those years ago, when he’d told himself that making friends was a terrible idea since he was bound to lose them someday? Yeah, Luna had a point: he_ was _afraid. Opening his heart had never worked out for him in the past; he’d thought things were different with Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto only to discover that he’d been wrong. No matter how long it took, no matter how at ease he allowed himself to become, the truth always reared its ugly head and reminded him that those moments of camaraderie were fleeting. In the end, he had no one to trust but himself and the stuffed animal in the picture. That Carbuncle had never lied to him or failed to be there when Noctis needed him._

 _The other two people in the photo_ had _._

But he didn’t have to do that _, whispered the little voice in the back of his head that had always sounded a lot like Ignis._

_Running a finger over the picture that only he could see, Noctis had to admit that that was true, albeit grudgingly. Now that he knew who they really were, he supposed that this scene never had to take place. Uncle Cid could have made a call to the king to ask for another Carbuncle to replace the one he’d had since he was born; Ignis and Gladio could have delivered it as a gift or simply said nothing at all. They didn’t need to go to the trouble of fixing it, which was definitely the more difficult task for an eight-year-old. Gladio didn’t need to sit with him and try to keep him occupied so that he wasn’t constantly fretting over whether the stitches looked right or if Carbuncle was in pain._

_He had, though._ They _had. Whatever lies they’d been telling him at the time, it didn’t change the fact that they had gone out of their way for him in a manner that he doubted simple retainers would—not at that age._

_Not that that changed anything. They weren’t those little kids anymore. Time had stolen that from them, along with his confidence in their brotherhood. The Ignis he’d met at the Citadel? He would have ordered a new Carbuncle. He would have seen fixing a twenty-year-old toy as a waste of a prince’s time, as well as that of his chamberlain. Probably._

_Noctis couldn’t bear to follow that line of thought any further than he already had, so he distracted himself by flipping the page with trembling fingers. This picture was a little more painful to see, but it brought a smile to his face all the same._

_When it came to photographs of his makeshift training sessions with Gladio, it was always difficult to tell how old they were. It felt like every time they visited, Gladio would drag him out behind the garage and try to teach him something new, usually with no real progress. It wasn’t that Noctis was_ bad _at fighting, per se: he just didn’t see a need for it. Never had, never would. Well,_ now _he did—being a prince sort of changed his perspective on that. Still, when he was living in Hammerhead (which Ignis called the_ land of the insufferably boring _when he thought he wouldn’t be overheard by Uncle Cid), there was no reason for that sort of thing. No one had ever tried to attack him at the outpost; he’d always been safe as long as he remained inside its borders. So, he’d never understood why Gladio was so adamant about teaching him how to swing a fake sword or dodge a blow the way he did whenever they saw each other._

_This picture, however, was different. Noctis knew exactly when this was, even though no photos had been taken at the time. Six months after his injury, six months after he’d wandered off on his own and discovered what the shadows looked like in the real world, Gladio had tentatively suggested that they needed to get back into the swing of things again. No amount of pleading and digging his heels in had been enough to convince him that that wasn’t necessary; no length of tense silence was able to communicate that picking up a stick only reminded him of how he’d tried to fight back against the daemon and lost. Appealing to Ignis was useless: he’d pursed his lips with a remorseful grimace and sighed that it would do him some good to get exercise after spending months mostly holed up inside._

_At the very least, they’d tried to make him as comfortable as possible. They’d chosen the brightest and warmest hour of the day to go out, and Ignis had insisted on bundling him in two jackets to stave off the chills that always ran up his spine when he had to leave the apartment in those days. They’d started off small—blocking punches. It was almost comical, looking back on it: Gladio had been moving so slowly in an effort not to hurt him that Noctis had almost felt irritated at being treated like he was a baby. He didn’t want to learn to fight, but if they were going to do this, then he didn’t want them acting as though he’d break if he missed a fist._

_Which he didn’t. Because Gladio had taught him well, reluctant as he’d been to learn._

_It wasn’t until they switched to those stupid sticks that his brain turned on him, transforming his future Shield into a towering monster in the blink of an eye. The next thing Noctis knew, he’d been sitting on the ground, sobbing into strong, familiar arms._

_Gladio wasn’t a hugger—he wasn’t even a toucher most of the time—but he’d sat there and held onto him until he came back to himself enough to realize that the daemons weren’t coming, that the monsters hadn’t returned to get him, that he wasn’t_ there _anymore. And yeah, he’d been pretty embarrassed about it later; he’d cleared his throat gruffly and suggested that they hold off on the training for a while before disappearing to allegedly pick up lunch from Takka’s. He’d still been there, though._

_He didn’t have to be._

He’s my Shield. He’s supposed to be there to protect me, _he reminded himself sternly._

_Did that extend to his emotions? After all, that had always been more Ignis’s area of expertise, which made sense if he was going to advise him for the rest of his life. Gladio, on the other hand, was meant to be the brick wall that stood between him and a gun if he was remembering his lessons correctly. There was no reason for him to do that, no reason for him to sit on the hard ground and let Noctis cry into his shirt. That wasn’t his job—it wasn’t his duty. It was, however, the sort of thing a brother did._

_Noctis shook that thought aside, hissing at the discomfort in his chest. He couldn’t think like that: it wouldn’t do him any good. Gladio wasn’t like that anymore. He was the person who’d stood in front of him and shot his hopes at point-blank range; he was the person who’d told him to get over his feelings because they were just doing their jobs. Whatever had made him comfort Noctis that day had long since been beaten out of him by duty, and there was no getting it back._

_So why was his heart still aching? Why was it still betraying him with pictures of memories he wished would simply disappear? Page after page showed him more of the same—Ignis sneaking vegetables into his food when he should have left them out in deference to his tastes, Gladio helping him wash cars when it would have built more muscle to make him do it himself, sitting at the table while Ignis helped him with homework that a prince should have been able to figure out on his own, laughing while Gladio tried to explain why Noctis should read more than play video games even though the latter would have been better for his physical coordination. With every photo came a wave of comfort that Noctis desperately tried to tamp down before it gave way to the darker thoughts, the ones that reminded him that the Ignis and Gladio he’d known when he was a kid had grown up into the retainers that Noctis had no business socializing with. The ones that delineated between himself and the prince he was supposed to be, forcing him to admit that they were two different people that couldn’t exist simultaneously._

_It shattered him every time, because as much as he wanted to hate them—as much as he never wanted to see them again for fear that he would stop cherishing the people they used to be and betray their memories—it would be a lie to say that he didn’t miss them. He couldn’t honestly tell himself that he didn’t long for those monthly visits, for those occasions when there was only hanging out with his friends and not worrying that they were secretly fulfilling some sort of obligation by merely being around him. He couldn’t pretend that the ghosts of those hugs and hair-rufflings and shoulder-punchings didn’t make his skin tingle and his heart split in two because he would never feel them again even if he did wake up._

_All the while, through each and every wrenching memory, Luna and Carbuncle were there. They didn’t speak; they didn’t try to get him to tell them what he was seeing. Instead, they sat in silent solidarity with him as he willingly broke his heart over and over and over again. There was no warmth anymore in the way Luna’s hand rested on his arm, nor did he find solace in Carbuncle’s weight when he curled up in his lap like a cat. There was only emptiness and pain that he hadn’t thought he could feel in this place, so far from the shadows while altogether nowhere near far enough._

_Eventually, when Noctis didn’t think he could take anymore lest he tear the journal in half and throw it into the mist, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He couldn’t handle any more_ happiness _. He couldn’t bear the sight of himself, so content with the people he thought he knew and never once wondering whether they were hiding anything from him. He couldn’t stand remembering that there was no going back to who they’d been, to the illusions they had built around him until he couldn’t see through them. All he could do was sit there, breathing deeply and trying to hold the devastatingly all-encompassing agony at bay as it threatened to sweep him right back into oblivion where he was beginning to believe he belonged._

 _There was no place in the world for him, only for the prince he had been at birth. The Noctis that existed in Hammerhead couldn’t survive anywhere else. In fact, maybe he’d had it wrong from the start: maybe_ he _was the illusion, railing against reality as though he had a right to be angry when fate had already dictated his necessary demise._

_He tried to say as much, to tell his companions that there was no hope in waking him up when he would cease to exist regardless of where his doom was decided. When he attempted to voice his thoughts, however, the words wouldn’t come._

_Despite the fact that they didn’t_ really _know each other, Luna seemed to hear them anyway._

_“These wounds can heal,” she told him with quiet resolve, her grip on his arm tightening. “There are so many who only wish to see you whole.”_

_“As a_ prince _,” he retorted in hardly more than a whisper._

_“Is he so different from you?”_

_“I don’t even know who he is.”_

_It didn’t occur to him until after the words left his mouth that she could never understand what he meant by that: she’d grown up in her position, as both Oracle and princess of Tenebrae. She didn’t have to relearn who she was supposed to be or redefine herself based on the role she would play in the world. From the time she was born, she knew her destiny, which was a hell of a lot more than he could say for himself._

_That chasm between their experiences wasn’t enough to make her reassurances less consoling when she pointed out, “The measure of our mettle lies in the strength of our hearts, not the positions we hold. A prince or a boy from Hammerhead, it doesn’t matter. I believe you’ll find that both are capable of great things, just as your friends do.”_

_Noctis shifted uncomfortably, deciding not to respond to that. There wasn’t any strength left in his heart; he’d used it all up on believing in people he shouldn’t have. So, rather than get into that debate, he glanced back down at the notebook and muttered, “You sure do have a lot of faith in them.”_

_“It’s not difficult when they have so much in you.”_

_“Even Prompto?” he shot back, suddenly realizing that there was one person he hadn’t seen in the journal. Noctis couldn’t help the savage bit of satisfaction he felt when Luna didn’t immediately answer, her expression dimming at the mention of his third friend—or so he’d once considered him. To see her reaction essentially confirmed what the monsters had told him, and the jagged edges of his heart seemed to cut into his lungs as he huffed humorlessly, “So, that was true. He really_ was _a spy.”_

_His words seemed to loosen Luna’s tongue, and she quickly—if tentatively—sought to assure him, “Many were turned to darkness in lieu of other paths they might have taken.”_

_“Which means_ yes _."_

_“That doesn’t mean he was never your friend!” Carbuncle chimed in with a chastising edge to his tiny voice._

_Scoffing, Noctis shook his head. “If the only reason he was around was to keep an eye on me, then that pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?”_

_“Perhaps at first,” agreed Luna, although he could tell from the crease between her eyebrows that that wasn’t all she had to say about the subject. Unfortunately, he was beginning to recognize when she was about to get all optimistic on him and beat her to the punch._

_“Let me guess,” he sighed sarcastically, “eventually, he started caring about me too.”_

_“Does that surprise you?”_

_“Just seems a little unlikely.”_

_That was putting it mildly, but he could tell from the offended squeak Carbuncle uttered that he was erring dangerously close to disrespecting them when they were only trying to help. It wasn’t that he meant to, not really, but he couldn’t deny that it was grating on his nerves to be patronized like this. He wasn’t a kid—he_ knew _what people were like and could see who they were for himself. Ignis and Gladio? If nothing else, he could give them credit for sticking around this long. Whether it was in his moments of weakness or ignorance or stubbornness or whatever, they had always stood by him. That was their job, yeah, but it took a lot of effort for them to take that and turn it into the illusion of affection they’d been plying him with for years._

_Prompto was an entirely different matter: he’d been lying from the beginning too, but at least the others hadn’t wanted to hurt him. At least the others hadn’t been working for an enemy that only wanted to see him dead._

_If Luna sensed his irritation, then she casually ignored it to argue, “Sometimes, finding a kindred spirit is all it takes. Your friend’s heart was steeped in darkness, but the light of your own gave him reason to cast that part of himself aside. You claimed not to know who the prince of Lucis is meant to be, but is there any more royal a quality than inspiring such loyalty in those around you?”_

_This time, it was Noctis who didn’t have an answer. It wasn’t that he couldn’t think of one; there were already about ten different responses on the tip of his tongue, each making it pretty damn obvious that that_ wasn’t _enough. Who cared if he inspired loyalty? Who cared if he was able to turn someone’s life around with a few video games and some heartfelt conversations? That didn’t put a dent in the lies Prompto had told or the sheer number of photographs that sinister voice told him had been sent to Niflheim, cataloging his daily life for those who meant him harm. Maybe Prompto hadn’t had the guts to pull a trigger himself; maybe he’d taken the coward’s route just like Noctis was doing in considering remaining here in the darkness. Even so, it all came down to the fact that he_ had _done those things, and not once had he come clean about them. It wasn’t fair that Noctis was only finding out now; it wasn’t fair that he couldn’t give Prompto a piece of his mind as he’d done with Ignis and Gladio. None of it was fair, but the bullshit assurance that he was the one who had somehow saved his erstwhile friend from becoming like every other Niff?_

_It wasn’t enough._

_Noctis had to keep telling himself that when, with narrowed eyes, he glanced down to see that the empty page he’d been staring at earlier was suddenly occupied by yet another photograph. This one, however, he knew existed in the real world—because Prompto had taken it himself. Noctis had had to beg him for a copy, and even then it had taken some real arm-pulling to get what he wanted, but there was a tattered and folded picture in the bottom of his duffel bag that looked just like it._

_Seeing it now didn’t provide him with the same solace it had before he left Hammerhead for Insomnia, though. Seeing it now, he couldn’t help cringing at the sappy smile he had on his face. He couldn’t even make the excuse that he had been young and stupid and unable to see what was right in front of him, not when this photo was only a few years old. There were no stuffed Carbuncles or tears being shed—there were just four teenagers grinning at the camera after what Noctis still remembered thinking was the perfect day he’d ever spent._

_Honestly, they hadn’t done anything special. It was merely an ordinary day where he didn’t have to work and Ignis and Gladio were at the outpost. They’d walked around for a while, just talking and catching up even though Noctis had spoken to both of his absent friends every day that week over the phone; they’d gotten lunch at the diner and wasted a couple of hours playing video games. Then they’d gone back to the apartment, where they sat around in the living room doing…nothing. Seriously, that was all. Noctis had lounged on the couch with his head on Ignis’s shoulder, trying not to fall asleep as he watched the latter scroll through new recipes that he wanted to try on his phone; Gladio and Prompto had been sitting on the floor in front of them playing some card game Noctis never could remember the name of._

_And it struck him, in that instant, how happy he was. How normal this seemed. How he hadn’t needed any more than that to be content with his life. Even when his head was still swimming with thoughts of the future and the decisions he’d thought he needed to make as he approached adulthood, he could set it all aside and just be grateful that he had friends like them—old and new._

_His brothers._

_His everything._

_He hadn’t complained when Prompto dragged him down onto the floor, messing up his hair in the process as he insisted that they all get a picture together for a change. Instead, he’d worn that goofy, stupid,_ happy _smile that was somehow mirrored on all of his friends’ faces._

_Even now, as drops of wetness splashed against the page, he could see through his tears that there were no lies in their eyes. There was no imitating people who gave a damn—there was no exasperation that this was what it took to keep him happy so that they could do their jobs, whatever those happened to be._

_There was only…_

_Only…_

_“Why are you showing me these?” he whispered brokenly, unable to take his eyes off the image even as he longed to snap the journal shut and throw it as far from him as possible._

_“They love you deeply, Noctis,” answered Luna just as quietly. Her hand was warm as it covered his own, and it took everything in him not to clasp it tightly when she continued, “Only by opening your heart and learning to trust them again can you hope to keep the shadows at bay.”_

_Trust them? Oh, how he wanted to—how he_ had _trusted the people smiling up at him as though they could save him with a grin. How he_ had _trusted the Ignis that fixed Carbuncle and baked him pastries that settled his stomach when he’d thought he might never feel normal again—the Gladio who pushed his buttons out of jest and not because he was the biggest bully on the planet—the Prompto who was just looking for a place to belong, the same as Noctis…_

_He’d trusted them all, but they didn’t exist anymore. How could he trust what wasn’t there?_

_Shaking his head, Noctis gently slipped his hand out of Luna’s grasp and closed the journal as he turned to look at her. He didn’t bother hiding his tears: they were the evidence that there was no fixing this. He wasn’t a stuffed Carbuncle; needles and thread couldn’t sew the shattered remains of his heart back together again._

_So he swallowed hard and replied to her dangerous_ hope _with a question: “What if I can’t?”_

_And for the first time since they’d pulled him from the darkness, neither Luna nor Carbuncle had an answer for him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a brief note: I used and adapted some of Carbuncle's lines from the Platinum Demo for this chapter. :)
> 
> Also, I just wanted to thank everyone for the amazing support and feedback that you have been leaving for this story!! Now that we are getting closer to the final leg of this amazing journey, I am so unbelievably grateful for all your kind words, kudos, and views. For a story that I honestly never thought I was going to write, this one means so much to me, and I am so glad that you have enjoyed it alongside me. Thank you so much again, and to those of you currently celebrating holidays, I hope they're fantastic! See you next week!


	27. Light at the End of the Tunnel

“Hell of a magic trick you got up your sleeve.”

Prompto laughed nervously, sitting on the floor beside one of the crates in the freight car as he retorted, “Barcodes get you places around here, dude.”

From the looks of it, Gladio wasn’t impressed. Actually, _neither_ of them were impressed. That was probably a good cue to shut his mouth and not mention what other things you could get by having this stupid little tattoo full of nonsensical numbers and lines on your wrist—they didn’t really need to know anyway.

Honestly, Prompto was just surprised that they’d taken him with them instead of leaving him strung up in that cell. It wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. Hanging around for a few days with no one for company except the distant squeaks of the rats and the even bigger rodent they called a mage popping in every now and again, he’d had plenty of time to think about stuff. So had the people he used to call his friends, however tentatively. Now, Prompto wasn’t sure _what_ they were, but he knew that wasn’t it. He had seen it in the way Gladio eyed him warily after Prompto had defended him from that ( _super hot_ ) chick at the Keep; he had witnessed the glance they exchanged when he’d kicked one of the guards in the face and taken his gun. (They didn’t ask whether he knew how to use it, so he had to assume that they weren’t too surprised.) Ever since they’d left his prison behind, they’d handled him carefully, as though he would stab them in the back at any moment.

That wasn’t the way friends behaved when they were glad to see you—that was the way _former_ friends behaved when they were finally aware of what a total and complete pile of steamy garbage you were. Still, while their silent disdain really wasn’t much of a step up from where they’d been when they found him, he knew which he’d prefer. Gladio barging in and throwing those photos in his face, making everything he’d done so clear when he’d at least had some distance between himself and his memories before…

Yeah. They should’ve just left him right where he was.

But they’d gotten him out of there. They’d promised to help him escape Zegnautus even though they had no idea whether he was a threat to them—and if anyone would believe that, they would. After all, they were like him: they’d lied about who they were and hidden their true capabilities. That wasn’t to say that things weren’t _way_ more complicated than that, of course; of the three of them, only one hadn’t been sent to be Noct’s _actual_ friend. That just sort of…happened. Anyway, the point was that they were two of the most exceptional people Prompto had ever met, so there was no chance that they didn’t see through the façade he’d portrayed for the last five years now that they had all the facts. Well, _most_ of the facts. There were still a few that he was just fine with keeping to himself.

That was the problem, though, wasn’t it? He’d lied for so long that they had every reason to believe he was no different from any other Niff. The way they’d looked at him… The way they were _still_ looking at him, even after he’d helped them in return… All he could do was remind himself that they had good reason. They were right to hate him. He was everything they’d ever been taught to despise in Lucis: an imperial spy, one who couldn’t be trusted because he would mindlessly follow the empire no matter what they ordered him to do. Five years ago, they would have been right. Five years ago, he would have done— _did_ do—exactly as his commanders wanted because that was how things worked.

Five years ago, he _wouldn’t_ have thought for himself or realized what a total chocobo turd he was being.

Prompto wasn’t that person anymore, not that they could know that. It was their job to expect the worst out of someone who had been sent to spy on Noct, and they were absolutely right to think that he’d do it again if given the opportunity. Hell, even _he_ kinda hated himself at the moment.

But he was doing okay so far, wasn’t he? He’d saved Gladio ( _sorta_ ), opened a few doors with his handy dandy brand, gotten them on a train since the one they’d taken apparently ditched them before they got back…

There was nothing he could do to help the raised eyebrows they’d garnered as they made their way to the station with weapons in hand, though. That was their own fault: you couldn’t just run around Niflheim with _swords_. What were they, from the stone age?

If what happened after was any indication, though, that was going to be the easy part. Civilians in Niflheim knew not to ask questions—so did the soldiers. See someone get dragged into an imperial facility against their will? Don’t ask, dude. See troops moving out of Gralea without notice or explanation? You don’t want to know. See a mini behemoth and a chamberlain walking around with oversized pocketknives in broad daylight? Move along, man, nothing to see here.

When you grew up in the empire, there was a certain level of understanding that trying to find out too much information that had nothing to do with you had one of two ramifications: getting killed or worse. There was no in-between. The years that he’d spent in training taught him that, and up until he’d met Noct, he figured it was the same for everybody. Trekking through Lucis on his way to Hammerhead, he didn’t question any of the strange things he saw and had been utterly appalled to discover that people actually _cared_ about what was going on in their country. Everything he’d ever learned about them indicated that Lucians lived in a state of chaos, not bothering to maintain order because they were too caught up in their own selfish desires. Back then, he’d almost missed the rigid structure he’d gotten used to in Niflheim.

Now, he couldn’t imagine what it would have been like if he’d stayed. There was the obvious stuff, like the fact that he wouldn’t have had to learn how to speak so casually or make certain decisions on his own as he’d done to fit into Lucian society. The cautiously bowed heads, though? The obvious distaste for anything out of the ordinary that might make them trip up in their perfect, uniform lives? Prompto had had to look away until they reached the station: it was too difficult to see that and realize that it could have been _him_ —that Ardyn had actually _helped_. Sure, it was in a really weird way that he would _never_ admit out loud no matter how much someone paid him, but still. He couldn’t exactly deny it.

Well, he _could_ , and he most definitely would. Especially given his present company…

In spite of the shiver it sent up his spine to wade through the populace that he’d once considered his people, that wasn’t the only thing that had him confused. What _really_ surprised him was the lack of guards to stop them once they were free of the Keep. He’d never been in Gralea before this little field trip, but at his facility, rumor had it that the capital was even worse than he’d seen during his years under constant scrutiny during training. There were people in uniforms—people like _him_ —watching your every move; when they couldn’t, the cameras caught you. Emperor Aldercapt knew if you had a cold or a bad cough, and he could tell you how many tissues you used to blow your nose on any given day (or whether you simply said _screw it, I’m picking it_ ).

To have walked through the streets, armed to the teeth after just barely escaping Zegnautus in one piece, without running into anyone who would try to stop them from making it to the train? It was too easy.

Ardyn had wanted them to escape. Prompto just couldn’t figure out why.

And if he was really lucky, he wouldn’t have to. The handful of times he’d spoken to the emperor’s mage in person were more than enough to tell him that that guy had a few screws loose. Actually, strike that: he was missing half the screws, and the other half were rattling around underneath that stupid hat of his. Whatever reason he had for letting them go without the kind of trouble he was more than capable of conjuring up, it couldn’t be anything good.

That was for someone a lot smarter than him to work out, though. For now, there were more important things to worry about than that guy.

If he’d put together enough pieces of Ignis and Gladio’s puzzle, then Noct was definitely in trouble. Otherwise, he probably would have come to rescue him himself instead of sending his royal retainers. Prompto couldn’t say that for certain, of course: if Noct knew he’d betrayed him, then there was no telling how he’d react. Still, Prompto had a hard time believing that he would let Gladio take care of things without getting his own punches in first. The only other alternative was that he _couldn’t_ come, and given who they were dealing with, that was the more likely of the two. Right now, _that_ had to be his priority.

So, steeling himself, Prompto glanced up at where his companions were speaking in hushed tones at the far end of the carriage and winced. Oh, yeah. This was going to go over _really_ well.

“You guys…never said what happened to Noct,” he began quietly.

He almost wished he hadn’t bothered when Ignis and Gladio’s gazes shot to him as though he were some kind of spy listening in on…their…

_Let’s not go there._

“Doesn’t make much difference,” retorted Gladio gruffly after a moment, his disdainful glare not easing for a second.

Prompto was probably supposed to shrink back and shut his mouth, but he hadn’t been one for doing what he was told lately. He was _free_ now.

“It makes all the difference!” he argued, immediately on his feet. “We’re talking about _Noct_!”

“I know who we’re talkin’ about. Kinda hard to forget the guy you’re supposed to kill.”

That brought him up short, and it took a moment before Prompto could choke out, “Those weren’t my orders.”

Gladio scoffed, but it was Ignis who replied evenly, “I doubt it would have mattered if they were or weren’t.”

…Okay, he had a point there. Regardless, Prompto had made it this far without succumbing to the fate of every other mindless imperial drone: he wasn’t going to lay down and let everyone else tell him what he could or couldn’t do anymore.

“Maybe not, but I’m calling my own shots now,” he insisted, straightening into what he hoped was a more commanding posture. To absolutely nobody’s surprise, it didn’t work.

“Damn right, you are,” grumbled Gladio with a careless wave of his hand. “We get off this train, that’s it. You can figure things out from there.”

“If Noct’s in trouble, then I want to help!”

“There’s a change.”

Closing his eyes, Prompto swallowed the surge of anger that was trying to climb out of his throat and make him say something that he didn’t deserve to voice. After all, Gladio was right: he _couldn’t_ be trusted, and he _would_ have killed Noct if those were his orders. _Before_. Only before.

This wasn’t the time for bickering back and forth to make himself sound better than he really was, though. It wasn’t the time for denial when they were already well aware of the truth. Prompto couldn’t change the past, but he had to at least attempt to convince them that he could make things right—as right as they could be, anyway. If Noct found out who he was— _when_ he found out—Prompto wanted to be there. He wanted to be the one to explain what he had done and why; he wanted to be the one to apologize for his actions, even if it wouldn’t make any difference. He’d had plenty of time over the last few days to imagine what would happen when he was done spilling his sob story and begging for absolution: Noct would never forgive him. He’d probably never want to see him again. Come to think of it, Prompto would be lucky to talk his way out of execution the second the king laid eyes on him. No one would blame him, least of all Prompto. He was the guy who’d been sent to keep track of the precious son King Regis had sent away for his own safety. Apologies would never be enough for him much less Noct himself.

If he didn’t get arrested for treason, then there was no way they’d let him stay in Lucis. Odds were, he would end up right back where he started: in Niflheim, because that was the only place that would take him.

It was a small sacrifice, considering his crimes. If that was the penance he was forced to perform in order to win back Noct’s trust, if not his friendship, then so be it. He’d stomached worse.

First things first, though: he needed to convince Ignis and Gladio.

_Honesty’s the best policy, right? Come on—you got this, Prompto._

“I know I messed up,” he admitted, lowering his gaze to the floor. For a moment, he let the sounds of the moving train wash over them before he was able to continue in little more than a whisper, “I should’ve said something, and I didn’t. That’s on me.”

“It ain’t about sayin’ something,” observed Gladio with a huff of humorless laughter.

Humming, Ignis added, “We can appreciate that your position was indeed a difficult one. Had you not conducted yourself as expected, Ardyn would likely have sent someone to replace you, and it’s doubtful that they would have treated Noct so well.”

That was practically a given: Prompto had had to go through extensive training to pretend he was a civilian. Part of the reason he’d been chosen was because he adapted easily to social situations. The rest of his fellow infiltrators-in-waiting? They wouldn’t know the word _social_ if it bit them in the ass and ran circles around them on a chocobo.

That, however, was where the compliments ended. When Prompto raised his head a fraction to meet their gazes, it was to find Ignis eyeing him with a shrewd, calculating, condescending, _Ignis_ expression.

“That said,” he pressed on brusquely, “five years is a long time to keep such secrets, and your deceit has cost us greatly, whether you meant it to or not.”

Prompto felt his stomach drop to the floor at that and blurted out before he could stop himself, “ _How_ greatly?”

Neither of them answered, exchanging a look that would have made him think of the old days if he weren’t so very much aware of the fact that those people didn’t exist anymore, at least not for him. Ignis and Gladio were retainers of Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, not the guys he’d hung out with in Hammerhead. They were here on business, not a friendly visit to catch up before they went back to work. The hours they’d spent trading lighthearted barbs and sarcastic jokes were long gone, no matter how familiar those mannerisms might be. Now that his secret was out in the open, he was no different. It was like they were a group of strangers, all united by a common factor that also seemed to be driving them apart.

He assumed so, anyway. Given that they were taking their sweet time telling him what the hell had happened while he was… _tied up_ , he couldn’t really say for sure yet.

Unless there was a reason they didn’t want him to know. Unless there was a reason they didn’t want to _say it_.

There was only one type of trouble that they would never want to speak of, however, and Prompto’s lungs seized up at the mere thought.

“He’s…” His voice was so hoarse that he could barely hear it over the endless banging of the rails beneath them, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “He’s not… Noct’s not _dead_. He can’t be!”

Seriously, he _couldn’t_ be! Prompto wasn’t stupid enough to think that those old, corny lines about how you’d feel it if someone close to you kicked the bucket were true. Sure, it would have been nice: a subtle shift in the universe or a sick feeling in the pit of your stomach was a far cry better than just _not_ knowing. That sort of thing didn’t happen in the real world, though, so he wasn’t about to go there. No, he simply figured that if Ardyn had managed to off the heir apparent of the country he’d been looking to dismantle for…well, _ever_ , there was no way he would be able to keep from gloating about it. Given how mouthy Prompto had gotten with him back in Hammerhead, he probably would have wandered right into his cell to spend a couple of hours regaling him with the story of exactly how it happened, too. Most of his commanders were a special enough brand of crazy to do that, but only Ardyn seemed to get that much sick pleasure out of other people’s suffering.

Yeah, he’d know if Noct died. He’d have to know.

Which was why relief hit him like a truck when Ignis shook his head and intoned, “He is still very much alive.”

It was likely that he didn’t mean for the unspoken _for now_ to be so deafening, but hey, Prompto had known him for five years. Some things were bound to translate without words after that long.

Just like the stiff set of his shoulders and the way Gladio was clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides practically _screamed_ that whatever _had_ happened, it was pretty damn bad. So much for that relief, then.

“So, where is he?” demanded Prompto, holding his breath and refusing to back down when Gladio’s glare turned in his direction. “Why aren’t you guys with him?”

“Why the hell do you _care_?” snarled Gladio with equal fervor. An instant later, he was right in Prompto’s face, glowering down at him as though he was a pile of dog shit that the former had nearly stepped in. All things considered, he figured there were worse comparisons to make.

One thing was for sure: it was about time this pile of dog shit proved his worth. That was going to start right here, right now. Maybe it would end with getting pummeled within an inch of his life and left tied up in this freight car until someone eventually found him, but it would be worth it if it meant making even the tiniest dent in the atonement he had coming.

Taking a deep and not at all bolstering breath, Prompto forced himself to meet their eyes as he confessed, “Because for all Noct knew, I was just some loser no one wanted. He didn’t have to help me or do half the things he did, but… He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the reason I’m free now.”

Snorting, Gladio mumbled, “Yeah, how’d that work out for ya?”

“Not so great,” admitted Prompto under his breath, finally giving in to the urge to drop his gaze to his shoes. “Still, Noct was there for me from the beginning. All of you were. You guys are like…the only friends I’ve ever known. And yeah, I know that things can’t stay the way they were. I get that. I just… If I can help make things right, then I want to. Noct deserves that much.”

Silence.

_Well. Guess that answers that._

When he looked up, however, he wasn’t being pinned down by twin glares. He wasn’t on the receiving end of the well-deserved punch to the face or kick to the gut that he was almost expecting. Ignis and Gladio weren’t even looking at him: their eyes were on each other as they shared a silent conversation that he wasn’t privy to. That in itself was enough to indicate that their inner circle had shrunk, leaving him outside its limits just like he’d been when he first arrived at the outpost. Over time, he’d grown accustomed to those brief glances, those shared thoughts that didn’t need words. In that moment, though, he was nothing more than an interloper. He hadn’t felt so much like a…like a _Niff_ in years.

_I’m not a Niff_ , he told himself firmly. He wasn’t sure who he was anymore, but he definitely knew he wasn’t one of them. If he had it his way, he never would be, either. Not again.

There was no telling Ignis and Gladio that. It was obvious that their minds were made up even when they turned back to look at him, the latter’s expression utterly blank while Ignis’s was almost unsettlingly intent on Prompto.

“If you genuinely wish to help, then there is only one thing that we require,” he announced, sounding as though he hated every single word that was coming out of his mouth. Prompto knew that feeling but didn’t stop to dwell on it, instead nodding his head so quickly that he thought it might fall off.

“Anything you need, I’m your guy!” he assured them emphatically. The knot in his chest loosened slightly when Ignis’s lips twitched and Gladio didn’t even bother refraining from rolling his eyes.

“The most valuable assistance you can provide is information,” continued Ignis, his voice betraying none of what Prompto hoped was his amusement.

And he was going to need a lot of that, because the one thing he needed was also the one thing Prompto wasn’t exactly full of. How could he be? It wasn’t like he ranked anywhere near the top of the imperial food chain. On a scale of one to ten, he ranked around the _amoeba_ level of importance. Any information worth having was given to somebody else—grunts, no matter what mission they were sent on, didn’t qualify.

That wasn’t exactly going to ingratiate him to them, but neither was lying so that they would think he knew more than he did. The Six just _couldn’t_ cut him some slack today, could they?

“Uh…what _kind_ of information?” he inquired cautiously, flinching a little when Gladio raised a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“You can’t seriously think protecting Niflheim’s secrets is more important than Noct if the two of you are such _good friends_ ,” he jeered sharply, his tone anything but teasing.

“N-No way!” stammered Prompto immediately.

Gladio didn’t give him a chance to get out more than that before he was on the offensive once again. “Then spit it out. What do you know about the empire’s plans in Lucis?”

_…They really don’t get how this works._

Setting aside the whole _protecting Niflheim_ thing for now, Prompto slowly observed, “Uh, you’re gonna have to narrow that down, dude.”

“Any information regarding Ardyn’s curse would be beneficial,” Ignis interjected before Gladio’s face could turn an even deeper shade of red.

The prince’s Shield clearly didn’t care for his counterpart’s less belligerent tactic—not that Prompto was surprised. For Gladio, if you couldn’t use either a battering ram or brute strength, it was hardly worth doing. Still, there was no denying that it was a little easier to breathe when Ignis was the one asking the questions.

Well, kind of. One glance at his eyes made you feel like you were being cut open so that he could examine your insides the way Prompto remembered him doing to a fish a few years back. It was downright unnerving to be on the receiving end for a change. The last thing he needed right now was to end up speared and fried, but…

“What _curse_?” he asked, utterly baffled.

“You tellin’ us you don’t know?” huffed Gladio, his eyes narrowing when Prompto shook his head.

“Already said it before, big guy: they don’t tell grunts that stuff.”

“So, lemme get this straight: they send you all the way to Lucis to…what? Take pictures?”

Prompto shrugged. “Basically? That’s all Ardyn said.”

“And he never once mentioned what it was that he planned for Noct?” Ignis clarified with a frown that Prompto definitely didn’t like the look of.

“Nope. Send pictures, get freedom. That’s all they ever told me.”

It wasn’t often that Ignis was rendered speechless, but apparently Prompto had finally managed it. Rather than respond or tell him what the hell they were talking about, he simply huffed impatiently and paced towards the opposite end of the carriage.

Which left the big angry behemoth next to him if he planned on getting any information of his own.

_Hoo, boy. This should be good._

“ _Sooo_ … What curse?” he repeated quietly, almost afraid that speaking too loudly would jolt Ignis from whatever mental obstacle course he was currently trying to run through.

The look he earned from Gladio was somewhere between contempt and indecision, but it seemed like he realized that if they were going to get any answers here, Prompto kind of needed to know what it was they were even asking. So, albeit grudgingly, he folded his arms over his chest and looked away before he spoke.

“Noct’s asleep.”

_And that’s different how?_

Prompto had to bite his tongue against that reflexive response. They all knew Noct was a big fan of napping: in the last five years, he’d fallen asleep on each of them no less than once a month, sometimes more if he’d worked a double shift at the diner. It didn’t matter what time of day it was—if Noct could justify closing his eyes for an hour, he’d do it. Gladio always got on his case about it, and Ignis offered a few subtle jabs about how staying awake would be healthier for his sleep pattern, but neither of them ever broke through that wall Noct had built between himself and any argument that he shouldn’t sleep whenever he wanted. Prompto had no idea how he did it, although that probably had to do with the fact that he’d always kept himself operating on a pretty strict schedule. That was how he’d grown up, so it was a tough habit to break. Besides, napping meant he woke up feeling groggy and confused, and there was too much fun to be had for him to waste a couple of hours _sleeping_. Forget that.

It appeared that this was a stickier subject now than it had been before, though, so Prompto hesitated a moment before carefully inquiring, “And that’s…bad?”

“It is when he can’t wake up,” deadpanned Gladio, his expression flat.

A few seconds passed where Prompto could do nothing more than stare at him in blank silence. Wasn’t it _dying_ when you went to sleep and didn’t wake up? That was how Prompto always saw it, anyway, but they’d said he wasn’t dead. Maybe… Maybe he hadn’t heard that right. Yeah, that had to be it. Ardyn was the single biggest asshole he’d ever met—he wouldn’t curse someone to just _sleep_ for the rest of their lives.

Would he?

“Wait, you said _what_ now?” Prompto eventually managed to reply, frowning when Gladio leveled him with an unimpressed stare.

“What didn’t you get?”

_Uh, pretty much the whole thing, dude._

“Nothing,” he lied as he scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “Just… Seriously? The curse is to _sleep_?”

Snorting, Gladio rolled his eyes before retorting, “Doesn’t seem like much till you see it in person. Pretty sure death’s better.”

Given the fact that Gladio was the sort of person who would literally spit in death’s face, kick it in the ass, and taunt it within an inch of its life—yeah, it had to be _really_ bad, then. As far as Prompto was concerned, he didn’t know which was worse: death was permanent, but sleeping through your whole life was so awkward. Like, what happened if you woke up and everyone you knew was gone because you’d been out so long? What if you looked totally different and didn’t recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror anymore? Prompto knew a little of what that was like, which was why a shudder ran up his spine to think that that was what might happen to Noct if they couldn’t break this apparent curse.

“Then, what do we have to do? How do we wake him up?” he demanded emphatically.

A little surge of pride erupted in his chest when Gladio didn’t immediately tell him it was none of his damn business. Prompto wouldn’t have been surprised if he did; he was positive that he deserved it. Still, he was glad that the big guy wasn’t totally meeting his expectations—he’d have to return the favor.

Despite his lack of outright derision, however, it didn’t appear to be any easier for Gladio to answer his question. There was a beat of silence where neither of them spoke: Ignis was still pacing at the other end of the carriage, clearly deep in thought as he racked his enormous brain for what to do next, while Gladio shuffled awkwardly in place. That did absolutely nothing for Prompto’s confidence.

Neither did the way he eventually huffed, shook his head, and spat, “True love.”

“…You lost me.”

“A kiss,” explained Gladio impatiently, refusing to meet Prompto’s eyes. He couldn’t blame the guy: it wasn’t like he was the most emotional character, but with Ignis in strategy mode, he was on his own.

Fortunately, Prompto was quick enough on the uptake not to need more than he’d already provided. Now that he had some context, what they’d said in the Keep made a lot more sense.

“That’s why you guys came all the way to Niflheim to find out if Noct had a crush?” he guessed, nodding when Gladio grunted in affirmation. Maybe it was a little insensitive, but Prompto couldn’t help the smirk pulling up at the corner of his mouth as he clarified, “You guys were just gonna drag some poor girl all the way to the Citadel and make her kiss Noct?”

“You got any better ideas?” demanded Gladio, whatever tentative peace they seemed to have come to evaporating in the blink of an eye. Okay, time to backpedal.

But only a little, because _seriously_ , that was one of the creepiest things he’d ever heard!

“Nope, just sayin’,” Prompto replied with his hands raised in a hopefully placating gesture. Whether it worked or not, Gladio at least decided not to eviscerate him. Yet.

After a minute or two where it looked like his mouth must have been cemented shut for how tightly his lips were pursed together, he deflated just enough that Prompto didn’t feel the need to fear for his life. That irritation hadn’t vanished from his gaze, nor had he entirely relaxed the stance that made it quite obvious he would have liked to put his fist through something, but it was a start.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” he muttered under his breath. “Not like there’s anyone to _drag back to the Citadel_.”

“Yeah,” whispered Prompto, that thought piercing him like a needle so that his insides seemed to leak out onto the floor. “Guess not. And there’s _no_ other way?”

“Nope. Gotta be true love’s kiss. Otherwise, he doesn’t wake up. Ever.”

Prompto was already shaking his head before Gladio finished, although he didn’t sound nearly as confident as he was aiming for when he exclaimed, “There has to be _something_ we can do!”

“This is all we got,” sighed Gladio, sounding about as defeated as Prompto was beginning to feel. “I mean, I’m down for crushing that asshole’s skull and seein’ if _that_ does the trick, but the bastard can’t die.”

“Pity,” murmured Ignis from across the carriage. He didn’t pause in his pacing or rejoin their conversation, but it turned out that he didn’t need to—Prompto was too busy getting lost in his own thoughts.

Or should he say _memories_.

He hadn’t thought anything of it before, but…was that what Ardyn had meant when he first woke up and found himself in Zegnautus? Admittedly, the mage hadn’t come to see him as often as Prompto would have thought; taunting him must have gotten old, and it wasn’t like he didn’t have better things to do with his time now that he was single-handedly running the empire. That didn’t mean that he hadn’t found at least a couple of minutes in his schedule to come down and see Prompto right after they’d arrived, though. Well, he was assuming it was pretty early on—things were a little fuzzy after…whatever happened in Hammerhead. Ardyn hadn’t given him much to go on in terms of how long he’d been at the Keep, but Prompto was betting on a few days based on how Ignis and Gladio were talking.

But that wasn’t the point. No matter how long he’d been there, Ardyn had gloated all the same about how he was never leaving. The things he’d said… Prompto would be lying if he tried to convince himself that he’d never thought of that stuff himself. Every day of the last five years, he’d wondered at least once what would happen if Noct found out—or worse, if Ignis or Gladio found out. They were his friends, yeah, but they were also devoted to protecting Noct with their lives. That was what he’d been told before he left Niflheim, and he’d kept that in mind as he systematically formulated the best route to the prince’s inner circle, which he’d been surprised to discover was way smaller than he’d originally expected. With every week, with every year, he’d considered the same thing: if anyone discovered the truth about him, he’d be lucky to make it out of there with his life. Everyone loved Noct, himself included, and he wouldn’t hold it against any of them if they executed him after everything he’d done.

Ardyn had said as much. For what short amount of time he’d bothered with Prompto, he’d been more than willing to paint that picture for him in excruciating detail. If he was to be believed, then wasting away in a cell at the heart of Niflheim was somehow better than the alternative, not that Prompto could see much difference either way. At least if he spent his final days in Lucis, the last thing he saw would be the place that was as close to home as he could possibly get. That didn’t sound so bad at all.

Then there was Ardyn, who insisted that dying at the hands of a foreign king who only wanted to see his son again after all these years was a waste. According to him, Prompto’s talents made him more valuable than that. Of course, he’d also called him defective— _broken_ —as if he was nothing more than the weapon he’d been trained to be since he was a kid. A few years back, he would have agreed. That was, after all, the only thing he’d been good for.

Now, though, he knew better. Rotting in Zegnautus was the worst fate imaginable, especially when Noct was still alive. He would rather die on the orders of a friend (or, more likely, his father) than be Ardyn’s pet again. He’d earned his freedom, even if his methods hadn’t been as honest or harmless as he would have liked. Still, faced with those two choices, he’d pick the foreign king any day.

That was when Ardyn told him that it didn’t matter, that there was no defeating him whether he was dealing with King Regis or the Six themselves. That there was no use rebelling against him because they were destined to lose.

“So long as I have the Crystal,” he’d sneered, practically spitting in Prompto’s face when he couldn’t move away, “I am invincible.”

He’d always hated Ardyn, whether because of who he was or just what he stood for. To know now that he hadn’t been kidding—that he literally couldn’t be killed?

“ _That’s_ what he meant…” mused Prompto, swallowing hard and closing his eyes.

“What who meant?”

“Ardyn.”

Where they’d both been actively avoiding each other’s gazes before, suddenly Ignis and Gladio’s eyes were drawn to him as though he was magnetized. Their combined weight was a little awkward, but it was nothing compared to the suspicion in Gladio’s voice.

“Tell us what he said,” he commanded roughly, looking like he might just shake it out of Prompto if he didn’t spit it out fast enough on his own.

_Typical._

“Just that everyone would learn not to mess with him,” he shrugged helplessly, not quite sure how that was going to help but figuring that continuing to _breathe_ was worth it. “That he’s got some crystal or whatever keeping him safe.”

“A crystal?” scoffed Gladio skeptically.

He already seemed to write off Prompto’s meager bit of intelligence without a second thought, but that didn’t stop him from confirming, “Yeah, he made it sound like a pretty big deal.”

“Right, because a guy like him really needs a rock t—”

“I highly doubt that it is a mere _rock_ , Gladio,” hissed Ignis, striding purposefully towards them with his eyes focused on Prompto. “You’re certain he called it a _crystal_?”

Blinking, Prompto found himself unable to look away as he stuttered, “Uh, yeah?”

Although the word meant nothing to him, it was like the wheels inside Ignis’s head were turning at an alarming speed. He didn’t speak for a moment, not to explain himself or ask for more information, and it was all Prompto could do not to try to hurry him along. Even Gladio stayed quiet, allowing Ignis the chance to think instead of plowing right through the way he usually would have.

“What is it, Iggy?” he inquired after a couple of minutes passed in silence, his tone more subdued now that he’d been effectively rebuked. It wasn’t something he often took lying down, but given the circumstances, Prompto figured he was letting it slide for now. If Ignis had any idea what the hell all this meant, then that was probably for the best.

For his part, he didn’t try Gladio’s patience further, although it took another minute for him to mutter so quietly they nearly didn’t hear him, “The Crystal of the Six.”

“The what?”

“A legend,” he elucidated slowly, “one that has long been debunked as nothing more than a myth. Still, I see no other crystal he might be referring to.”

“So, what? Ardyn’s sendin’ us on wild chocobo chases now?”

“Doubtful. Since his return to Lucis twenty years ago, he has done nothing that was not orchestrated to a far greater extent than we anticipated.”

“Then what’s the Crystal of the Six?” Prompto chimed in curiously. “And what’s that got to do with, like…anything?”

It appeared to take an awful lot of effort for Ignis not to roll his eyes at the fact that he was once again the smartest guy in the room. How many years was it going to take before he figured out that that wasn’t really bound to change anytime soon? Gladio was the muscle, Noct was the prince, Prompto was the…whatever he was. That left Ignis to give them all the seemingly useful information they totally didn’t need to know unless they were on some kind of stupid quiz show.

Well, until they did, anyway.

“The Crystal of the Six,” he began briskly once he’d gathered his thoughts and stuffed his impatience, “was said to be a conduit through which the Astrals bequeathed their power to the four mages. Although it carried none of the might that they wielded themselves, its properties allowed them to draw from it to use the talents they were ascribed.”

“So, no Crystal, no mages?” Gladio guessed, grunting when Ignis nodded. “Sounds pretty good right about now.”

“Perhaps. Regardless, no evidence of its presence was ever unearthed. It was allegedly fostered somewhere in Eos, but that location was never determined. For all that anyone knows, it doesn’t even exist.”

Prompto frowned, positing, “But if Ardyn mentioned it, it’s gotta be real, right? It’s too random!”

“Quite,” agreed Ignis, although the crease between his eyebrows indicated that it wasn’t as easy as that.

_It never is. Go figure._

Before he had a chance to think through whatever was bothering him, however, Gladio interrupted his thoughts to apparently voice them himself: “Seems pretty convenient, if you ask me. We come looking for answers, and he lays that one in our laps? I don’t buy it.”

“Nor do I. Not entirely, at least.”

“It’s the best we’ve got, though,” observed Prompto quietly. The twin looks that earned him weren’t quite as piercing as before, but he wouldn’t exactly classify them as _trusting_ either.

Which made sense, considering that they were talking about Ardyn possibly trying to trap them with something that had just come from the mouth of his former spy. Yeah, he kinda got where they were coming from.

Rather than hold that against him, Ignis pulled his phone from his pocket and began tapping away at the screen as he informed them, “I will see what Talcott can find in the Citadel’s library. If it does exist, and if it is in Lucis, then there is no better place to locate information.”

“How good are those chances?”

“Slim,” admitted Ignis, shrugging a shoulder. “At this juncture, however, we have no other options and plenty of time to make use of before Gladio and I arrive in Galdin.”

There it was again—it was so cleverly done that Prompto would have missed it if not for how finely attuned he was to everything they were saying now that he realized the implications of his actions for Noct. Ignis didn’t yell at you when he got mad; he didn’t lash out and punch you in the face. No, his payback was usually _way_ worse: he’d turn his words into daggers, stab you with them, then leave you bleeding out while he went about his business. Prompto honestly admired that, or he would have if it weren’t currently directed at him.

For a few minutes there, he’d been able to mostly forget the fact that they weren’t on the same page, that they weren’t the team they used to be when Noct and his own forged past formed the glue that held them together. The conversation hadn’t been easy, and they’d obviously been less than enthused with hearing what he had to say, but they hadn’t outright excluded him. He could fool himself into believing that nothing had changed in those brief moments; he could pretend that they were just playing one of those video games where you had to save the princess or whatever. (Noct always hated those ones, which was _super_ ironic.)

He hadn’t needed the reminder that he wasn’t going back to Lucis with them, at least not as far as he knew. He hadn’t needed the reminder that it was up to him to make his own way, wherever that landed him now that he couldn’t expect their help or friendship.

Ignis had offered it anyway, because as much as they needed information, he was making it pretty damn clear that they _weren’t_ friends. They _weren’t_ going home together. They _weren’t_ going to save Noct as a team.

Well, the joke was on him, because Prompto wasn’t about to get left behind. For one thing, Lucis was a free country—the only one, as a matter of fact—and Prompto could live there if he wished. …Actually, correction: he could live there as long as the king didn’t boot his ass right back to Niflheim. Even if he did, though, he didn’t have to stay in Gralea or anything: there was always Altissia or even going back to his fake roots and finding a place in Tenebrae. He could totally handle that if he had to.

But he didn’t _want_ to. What he wanted was to go with them and help Noct. Maybe there would be no way to atone entirely for all the terrible things he’d done before he realized what it meant to have friends and live for himself, but he would do whatever he could. They wouldn’t leave him behind—not yet. Not until he’d seen this through and made sure Noct woke up.

Somehow.

So, letting that comment slide, he allowed the verbal knife to protrude from his chest and asked, “What’re the odds that he’s just trying to throw us off? Like, we go hunting around Lucis for this Crystal while he tries to hurt Noct more.”

Surprisingly, Gladio snorted with a touch of wry humor. “Gonna have a pretty tough time with that.”

“How come?”

“’Cause it ain’t just us guarding ‘im,” he replied cryptically.

Whether he was trying to leave Prompto in suspense or he just didn’t want to tell him what he knew, Gladio trailed off with a frown before he could add anything of actual use to that explanation. In another life, Prompto would have made a joke about not hurting himself given how hard he appeared to be thinking, but he bit his tongue against it now. After all, they were still on a moving train. Prompto wanted it to stay that way.

It turned out that he didn’t have a chance to ask, though. The moment he opened his mouth, Gladio let out a bark of laughter and put his hands on his hips with a grin.

_O…kay? I think he’s lost it._

“Y’know what, Iggy? I think we can leave Talcott outta this one.” Without offering more in the face of Ignis’s curiously raised eyebrow, Gladio suddenly looked up at the ceiling and shouted, “Hey, Gentiana! Get your ass down here and give us a hand!”

_…Yup. Totally lost it._

Ignis must have been of the same mind, because he grabbed Gladio’s sleeve and shook him as he hissed, “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

“’Bout time she pulled her weight around here,” grumbled Gladio, yanking his arm out of Ignis’s reach. “If anybody’s gonna know about this Crystal, it’ll be her.”

“W-Wait, who’s _her_?” stammered Prompto uneasily. If they were talking about one of the Kingsglaive or Crownsguard, then he _so_ didn’t want to be here when they showed up. _If_ they showed up. Because Prompto had seen a lot of weird things in his life, but guards popping out of thin air in the middle of a speeding train wasn’t one of them.

He wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or even more taken aback when Ignis let out an irritated sigh and answered, “The Messenger, Gentiana. She delivers the word of the Six to those on Eos.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Gladio with a jerk of his chin over Prompto’s shoulder, “and she actually decided to show up for a change.”

He _definitely_ didn’t yelp when he whirled around to see that there _was_ someone standing behind him—a very pretty someone, as a matter of fact. Although he never would have thought it possible before, Prompto had to grudgingly admit that this Gentiana person might possibly sorta kinda put Cindy to shame. It wasn’t her regal black dress or the confidence with which she carried herself, though. No, this was something deeper, something that seemed to make the air around them crackle with power that Prompto had never felt in person before. Oh, he’d heard about this sort of thing from his instructors; he’d sensed something similar the first time he was in the same room with Ardyn. The aura that Gentiana exuded, however, didn’t make him feel like he needed to take a shower or slough off his skin. It was refreshing, even if Prompto still thought it was creepy that she’d suddenly appeared like that with absolutely no warning.

Then again, she was a mage. What else did he expect?

Apparently not the amused smirk she wore as she stood quietly in the corner, her eyes closed and hands clasped in front of her as though she hadn’t been summoned to the literal pit of Eos. Of course, Ignis being Ignis, he didn’t let that keep him from offering their condolences.

“Apologies for the abruptness of our invitation,” he addressed her, inclining his head respectfully. It was a good thing the Messenger wasn’t looking (or was she?), because the glare he shot Gladio was pretty caustic. “I’m afraid we have need of your guidance.”

“To aid the retainers of the future king is the duty of the Messenger,” Gentiana replied calmly in an accent Prompto had never heard before. That was no shock when he’d not been to nearly as many places as it sometimes seemed, but he found himself mesmerized nonetheless.

Ignis and Gladio must have met her before: neither of them had the same reaction he did. If anything, it appeared that Gladio was struggling not to make a rude comment, letting Ignis take the wheel on this one. Admittedly, Prompto thought that was a good plan—he wasn’t sure what powers the Messenger had besides teleporting wherever the hell she wanted, but he wasn’t too enthusiastic about finding out.

Luckily, neither was Ignis, although Prompto frowned at the mildly accusatory note in his voice when he continued, “We were unable to gather information on anyone who might be able to break the curse, but it appears that Ardyn has left one clue for us that we are wary of trusting.”

“What do you know about the Crystal of the Six?” demanded Gladio, clearly tired of waiting for Ignis to get to the point.

The latter looked for a moment as though he might just break his policy on not getting physical without reason, but he ultimately let his disrespect slide when Gentiana didn’t visibly take offense to Gladio’s behavior. At least, Prompto didn’t think she did. It was hard to tell when she just stood there with that weird smile on her face. If she hadn’t already spoken, he would have thought she was a mannequin or something for how still she was.

After a few seconds of what he hoped was silent contemplation, she tilted her head to the side and answered in the same even tone, “From the Crystal is the might and will of the gods relayed.”

“Even to Ardyn?”

“The Accursed, too, is endowed with the divine blessing of the Crystal.”

Clicking his tongue, Gladio muttered under his breath, “Would’a thought they’d take that away when they figured out the guy’s a psychopath.”

“Is that why he cannot be defeated?” Ignis pressed on without berating him.

“The abominations wrought by the Accursed are great,” Gentiana explained, “granting him power beyond that of the Crystal. With both does he wage his war against mankind.”

Prompto swallowed hard and interjected, “So, if we destroy the Crystal, does that mean we can destroy him?”

This time, the Messenger paused, and Prompto felt like someone had cut a hole in the bottom of his stomach to let all the acid eat away at his insides. Intermediaries for the gods probably weren’t supposed to take sides, yet he couldn’t help wondering if she would even bother speaking to someone like him—someone who had worked for _the Accursed_ , as she called him, and willingly went along with his schemes. His fears weren’t exactly assuaged when she spoke after an interminable moment, but that likely had something to do with the way that her eyes opened to survey him with a kind yet scrutinizing gaze that he didn’t appreciate one bit. It was as though she was peering into the depths of his soul, searching for any indication that he was here to betray them again. It took every ounce of control Prompto had to let her without squirming or looking away. After all, he knew who he was: if the Messenger wanted to know as well, then he would prove to her that he wasn’t the same as the person they were talking about. He wasn’t one of those abominations—maybe he had been before, but he’d never be again.

“The destruction of the Crystal alone cannot undo what has been done,” she warned them all, her eyes never once leaving Prompto’s, “yet the Accursed’s grasp shall not waver so long as the power of the Crystal remains.”

“So we at least got a chance of defeating him with the Crystal outta the way,” summarized Gladio with a resolute nod.

“ _If_ we can locate it,” Ignis reminded him. His gaze settled back on Gentiana, who returned it for the first time since she’d arrived. “Does it indeed lie in Lucis?”

The Messenger inclined her head slightly, stating, “At the eye of the storm, at the heart of the mountain, in the place where all lands meet will you find what you seek.”

Prompto frowned. Was…that supposed to be helpful? Because he had absolutely no idea what she meant by any of it. How could something be in the middle of a storm _and_ a mountain at the same time? Geography had never really interested him—memorizing maps of Lucis before the start of his mission had been _killer_ —but he was pretty sure that wasn’t a thing.

Which was why he uttered an involuntary groan of exasperation when Ignis deduced, “Ravatogh,” in less than seven seconds flat. He counted.

“Seriously, how do you _do_ that?” he huffed.

Ignis smirked briefly as he retorted, “I believe a healthy bit of _reading_ would suffice.”

_…Pass._

Comics? Sure. Fiction? Absolutely. The books Ignis tended to read, however, were way too boring for his tastes. If it couldn’t be looked up on his phone, then he would be happy to let the guy whose literal job it was to know everything about everything tell him what he needed.

Gladio was apparently immune to their exchange, his stony expression not lifting for a second. Instead, he fixed a sharp gaze on Gentiana and grunted, “Guessing it’s not gonna be as easy as walkin’ in and smashing the damn thing.”

“The Oracle alone can purge the presence of the Crystal,” confirmed the Messenger with another slow nod. That, however, only seemed to tick Gladio off more.

“Great. So, you’re tellin’ me the only person who can get rid of it is a prisoner.”

A moment of silence, then, “No bonds exist that can imprison a mage of the Six.”

“Could’a fooled me.”

In that moment, Prompto realized they were _super_ lucky Gentiana seemed to like them. Otherwise, he thought she would have been hard-pressed not to give Gladio the old one-two—or the magical equivalent, anyway. She must have grown some pretty thick skin in her line of work, though, because she didn’t react a bit to the sarcastic derision in his tone the way Prompto would have in the same position. Rather, that eerily calm smile from before returned as though she knew just how much it would grate on Gladio’s nerves to see it.

“The Oracle goes hence to Lucis. At the mountain of fate will she meet the prince’s retainers,” she told them in the same unflappable tone she’d managed to maintain in spite of the daggers Gladio glared at her.

Ignis paid him about as much attention as she did, although he didn’t get the opportunity to respond when Prompto was too busy excitedly blurting out, “Wait, you mean we’re gonna get to meet the Oracle?!”

“That is the will of the gods,” she assured him, her smile turning a little sincerer.

Maturity—whatever he could muster, at least—was the only thing keeping him from freaking out on the spot. Meeting the Oracle was, like, impossible. For as long as he could remember, she’d been just a distant notion: a princess cloistered in Tenebrae who helped out the sick and injured that were able to visit her. It was like a fairy tale, only there wasn’t a happy ending in sight. With the empire calling the shots, happy endings didn’t exist.

This time, however, he was determined to change that. And apparently it was going to start with _meeting the Oracle_!

_Keep it together, Prompto!_

Clearing his throat with a sheepish grin, he bashfully inquired, “Is that why _you’re_ helping us too?”

That one seemed to throw her, and for a second, she didn’t reply. When she did, Prompto didn’t think he was imagining the warmth in her tone or the way her gaze softened just a fraction more.

“The path of the Messenger is decided by the needs of mankind.”

“Looks like that makes you our fairy godmother now,” snorted Gladio, his own smirk a bit more genuine in light of his joke.

“Those who serve the future king have earned the succor of the divine,” Gentiana explained. She totally didn’t get the reference. “To you, the mages are bound until the task is done.”

Nodding, Prompto murmured, “So… _yes_.”

“Yup,” agreed Gladio.

“One last question,” Ignis interrupted, glaring them both into silence. When he raised his eyes to Gentiana again, Prompto noticed that there was a hesitation to the motion that wasn’t really…well, _Ignis_. He realized why a moment later when the latter inquired, “If we are to destroy the Crystal, what becomes of you and the others?”

Frowning once more, Prompto glanced over to Gentiana. He hadn’t thought about that. Getting rid of the Crystal might make taking Ardyn down easier, but what would that mean for the other mages? Would they lose their powers too?

If the way the smile faded from the Messenger’s lips was any indication, then that was exactly what would happen. In her own enigmatic way, she all but confirmed it.

“Long has the Accursed’s scourge reigned,” she murmured, her voice beginning to fade in and out like a radio that was stuck between two stations. “Through this sacrifice will the world be liberated.”

With those words, it was as though someone had dropped a blurry filter over his eyes, obscuring the rest of the carriage from view. By the time he was able to blink away the darkness, Gentiana was gone.

_Wow. Dramatic much?_

From the looks of things, it must have been par for the course. Besides an exasperated roll of his eyes, Gladio seemed neither surprised nor upset that the Messenger up and left like that without so much as a word. Then again, given how she’d gotten there, it wasn’t like that was totally unexpected. Still…

“Uh… Is she always like that?” he asked, squinting as though she might pop into view again if he looked hard enough.

Ignis merely turned back to his phone and sighed, “More or less.”

 

***

 

_“Noctis.”_

_The sound of his name had his eyes snapping open immediately, and he raised a hand to his face with a groan as he waited for them to adjust to the white light around him. He didn’t feel groggy, not even for a second, but that didn’t mean anything: he could have been out for a minute or a few days for all he was aware of the passage of time in this place. Fortunately, Luna was more patient than he probably deserved, so he knew she’d wait for him to get with the program._

_At this point, Noctis had long since lost count of how many times he’d woken up with his head in her lap and Carbuncle’s tucked under his chin. Yeah, he’d been embarrassed about it at first, but it had quickly become something of a routine—one that they never spoke of, thankfully. Despite the heat it always brought to his cheeks, though, Noctis couldn’t bring himself to feel too ashamed about it anymore. Was there really anything wrong with liking that sensation of being surrounded by warmth instead of the frozen abyss that still made him shudder at the mere memory? Besides, neither of them held it against him, so he managed to swallow a lot of his sheepishness as he sat up without meeting her eyes._

_Falling asleep was the part he could never remember: it seemed like they’d be talking one moment, then he was coming around the next with no clue how long he’d been out. Luna and Carbuncle never said a word about it, although he wasn’t sure whether that was because they didn’t want to remind him of the curse or they just understood that he was in desperate need of rest after everything he’d gone through._

_And he got it here. With the two of them around, there were no nightmares or monsters or sneering voices that sounded like people he once knew. Sleeping was just that: sleeping. Luna kept the shadows away, and for the first time in he didn’t know how long, he wasn’t plagued by pain and torment. He wasn’t constantly brought back to himself in agonizing distress, nor did he beg for unconsciousness as thoroughly as he dreaded it. He simply drifted off at some point and, when his eyes popped open, he felt like he had at least a little more energy than he’d started with. That was some progress, so he wouldn’t complain about the fact that falling asleep randomly in the middle of a conversation was both rude and_ really _annoying._

_Of course, there were other downsides as well. Whenever he fell asleep, it wasn’t just him inside his head: slowly but surely, all the things he hated to remember but couldn’t bear to forget returned to him in snatches of memories that he hadn’t thought about in years. There was the time Nyx had hoisted him onto his shoulders (without complaint when Carbuncle smacked him in the face) so that he could get a better view of the dinky little New Years’ fireworks Uncle Cid was setting off behind the garage. There was the day that Cor had showed him how to tell what time it was based on where the sun sat in the sky, a tender yet firm hand on his shoulder as he pointed into the distance. There were the occasions when he would wake up from a nap in what used to be his makeshift schoolhouse to find Crowe waiting with cookies and hot chocolate—they were never as good as Nyx’s or his uncle’s, but the fact that she’d been nice enough to do that for him made it all taste excellent anyway._

_More than anyone else, though, he saw his friends. All the times that Ignis cleaned his scraped knees and brushed aside his tears, all the times that Gladio gave him a shove in the right direction when he really needed it, all the times Prompto showed up at just the right moment to distract him from thoughts of the future that made his stomach turn. They were all still there, the smiles and hugs and teasing and simple companionship. With every memory, with every dream that didn’t end in despair, Noctis’s chest ached a little more. It wasn’t the same as when the monsters attacked him, yet in some ways, it was even worse._

_Then Luna would call his name, summon him back to this place, and they would talk some more. Half the time, he didn’t recall what they’d spoken about afterward, so random were their conversations. They filled the emptiness around them with nothing and everything all at once until he felt as though Luna knew more about him and his thoughts than he did. There were these moments where he would utter some comment only to notice an unreadable expression on her face; she never explained what she was thinking, however, preferring to listen to him instead. As much as he always worried that he’d run out of things to tell her, no awkward silences stretched between them. Being in her presence never failed to calm him in spite of the mess waiting inside his mind every time he closed his eyes._

_Noctis hadn’t opened the journal again, not since that first time; he wasn’t sure he would ever find the strength to do so. The images in his head were more than enough—he didn’t need them in front of his face so that Luna and Carbuncle could see his reactions. At least when he was asleep, he didn’t have an audience. When he was asleep, he could deal with the pain of reliving his losses on his own, even if that was a lot harder than he would have thought after he’d grown so accustomed to the lies and bullshit._

_It was easier to deny his own feelings—that treacherous_ longing _that simply screamed of more heartbreak—when he didn’t have to share. His companions never asked, and he never told. It was better that way._

_Or it usually was._

_Although he never had to field questions about what was going on in his own mind, Noctis was used to hearing just one whenever Luna woke him:_ did you sleep well? _In this instance, however, the seconds stretched into minutes with not a sound besides the gentle rustling of the grass as it shifted in a nonexistent breeze. Where that would have brought him some semblance of peace before, it now served to accentuate the silence until he was about to crawl out of his skin. There was no warmth to be found in the glade or the companions at his side, and little bumps made the hair on his arms stand up._

_It was a mistake to glance over at her. He knew that before he forced himself to do it._

_Nothing good could come from an expression that looked_ that _sad._

_“Luna?”_

_Lifting her gaze from the flowers around them, she mustered what he supposed passed for a smile, albeit a weak one. By now, he assumed she had to be pretty good at that sort of thing even if she hadn’t tried it on him until that moment. How else was she meant to survive with a bunch of imperial soldiers surrounding her day and night in Tenebrae? If she couldn’t put on a good act, then she probably wouldn’t have lasted long at all; in her annexed kingdom, he imagined that might be one of the only things standing between death and whatever they called living when the empire was in charge. Not that Noctis knew a whole lot about that sort of thing (not yet, at least), but he assumed that it had to be tough to stay so strong all the time. In fact, he probably would have found it encouraging if it weren’t directed at him._

_Instead, that tiny upturn of her lips set Noctis on edge not because it was so obviously fake, but because he was well aware that he had always done the same thing. It seemed like he was constantly pasting a smile on his face when he was a kid in the hopes that he wouldn’t upset anyone else or make them feel bad about something they didn’t need to worry about. Asking Uncle Cid about where he came from? No way, just smile. Saying goodbye to Ignis and Gladio while that niggling worry at the back of his mind made him wonder whether they really were coming back again like they said? Grin and bear it._

_It was a bad news smile. It was an_ I’m Sorry _smile. It was a_ Chin Up _smile._

_And that could only mean one thing in this place._

_“You’re leaving,” he guessed, not bothering to phrase it as a question. It wasn’t like asking for confirmation was going to change what he already knew to be true._

_Sure enough, Luna’s smile faded a bit in regret as she murmured, “I’m afraid I must.”_

_Right. Unlike him, she had actual duties. She was important in more ways than simply her title. The Oracle couldn’t sit around all day making sure he didn’t have nightmares and trying to fix whatever was broken inside him. There were other people who needed her, who needed to be healed and cared for a hell of a lot more than him. If he was being honest, he didn’t really think that there was much she could do for him anyway. It wasn’t like she could make his memories hurt less or remove the bitter taste of betrayal that accompanied every vision of happier times. The rest of Eos, though? She served a purpose there that couldn’t be delayed by the darkness of his own thoughts or the curse that the king’s enemy had placed upon him._

_Luna was important. The world needed her._

_It didn’t need Noctis._

_So, swallowing the lump that lodged itself in his throat, he simply nodded. He didn’t ask when she would return; he didn’t ask what would happen to him when she was gone. None of that mattered. He couldn’t be selfish, even if that meant sinking back into the darkness the way he had before she and Carbuncle found him. There wasn’t any point in wondering whether he would stay either: the Dream Guardian was staring up at him in silence, his eyes full of remorse that had Noctis reaching out to pet him in what he hoped was a forgiving gesture. Their responsibilities were to Eos, not him personally. They couldn’t save him from every nightmare, every monster, every intrusive thought. Of course, they’d done the best they could, and he was grateful for that. Whatever time he didn’t have to spend in shadow, waiting for an end that didn’t seem ready to come just yet, was a blessing. Holding onto them wasn’t an option, regardless of how desperately he wished he could. He’d been alone before—he could do it again. He didn’t_ want _to do it again, but he could._

_And he had to, because Luna plucked one of the flowers—sylleblossoms, she’d called them—from the ground and rose to her feet._

_“I hope to see you again one day, Noctis,” she told him quietly without meeting his eyes, “but for now, this moment will have to be enough.”_

_Quashing the childish hope that that meant she’d be back sooner than he thought, Noctis merely stared up at her for a moment before he tentatively inquired, “One day?”_

_Luna nodded, turning towards him and leaning forward so that her eyes were nearly level with his where he was still kneeling on the ground. “That which is yours by right shall be restored to you so long as you remain strong and realize who you are.”_

_“I know who I am,” he blurted out, uncomprehending. That simply made her smile widen, although it still wasn’t the happy one he’d seen the first time they met._

_“You know yourself by name, but you have lost sight of who that person is,” explained Luna, holding out the sylleblossom for him to take. The moment their fingers touched, it was like lightning erupted between them, and Noctis was unable to pull his hand away as she continued, “Only once you understand what your heart truly desires will you wake. When that day comes, you and I will meet again.”_

_It took a few seconds for Noctis to respond, opening and closing his mouth wordlessly. She waited—she always waited for him—until he was finally able to whisper, “I…don’t know if I can do this alone.”_

_“You won’t be alone,” Luna reassured him, squeezing his hand before she stepped back a few paces. His eyes were locked on hers even as the glade around them grew indistinct, but her words were still clear. “When the world falls down around you and hope is lost, when you find yourself alone amid a lightless place, look to the distance. Know that all those who care for you are there, and that we watch over you always.”_

_Noctis shook his head, suddenly registering the widening chasm between them and scrambling to his feet, the sylleblossom clutched tightly in his hand. There was no time to run for her, however. In that instant, the ground shifted violently beneath him, and he nearly crashed right back down onto his knees—_

_Only there was no grass. There was no_ ground _._

_There was only an abyss of darkness below, tendrils of shadow creeping from its depths towards him._

No…

_Carbuncle’s yelp had him dragging his eyes away from his fate to see the Dream Guardian and Oracle bathed in light that he could not grasp no matter how hard he tried. Noctis reached and reached, his arms stretched to their limit as he struggled against the tides that seemed to drag him downwards. They couldn’t stay—he couldn’t make them—but he didn’t want them to go—_

_He didn’t want to be alone again._

_It was too late. Darkness was closing in around him, that lightless place swallowing him whole as both mages vanished into the light._

_And just as he was drifting on the edge of consciousness, that familiar agony rising in his chest once again, one final whisper echoed in his ears._

_“Farewell, dear Noctis.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note: due to the holidays, the next chapter could potentially be delayed a day or two. I'm hoping that it doesn't come to that and that I'll have enough time to write during the week so we can stay on schedule, but just in case you don't see an update next Saturday, I just wanted to let you know! 
> 
> If you are celebrating, have a very merry Christmas, and I hope to see you guys again before the new year! :)


	28. Hearts Ablaze

By the time Ignis spotted the sign for the Verinas Mart at the base of the Ravatogh Trail, he was seriously contemplating the idea of letting Gladio and Prompto walk the rest of the way to their destination. At least then he would be able to enjoy ten seconds of peace and quiet for a change.

They had been positively insufferable since they’d disembarked in Succarpe, trading the train for Dino’s waiting vessel. Of course, Ignis had predicted that would be the case: the two of them had spent years squabbling over the most trivial things when trapped in close quarters. It was unavoidable given their rather different personalities, and there had been many occasions during their visits to Hammerhead where Ignis and Noct simply looked on as the two of them competed for supremacy in the seemingly never-ending battle that they had been waging since the day they’d met. _Dislike_ never had anything to do with it, although he supposed an outside observer might mistake their bickering as such. After all, there were only so many death threats and sarcastic retorts one could listen to before they wondered if Gladio and Prompto truly despised each other as thoroughly as it appeared at first glance. Theirs was a strange and awkward brotherhood, no doubt about that.

In a way, Noct shared a similar relationship with Gladio, albeit with less overt hostility. Where they traded barbs and engaged in horseplay, however, the situation with Prompto had always been a bit different. The jokes were still there, as was the witty repartee that could be both amusing and annoying in the same breath. Yet unlike Noct, Prompto was a far more vocal individual; if he _could_ complain about something, he would. It was that which invited Gladio’s oftentimes exaggerated ire, as the latter had always been one to believe that whining was a sign of weakness. Ignis wouldn’t say he disagreed, not entirely, but he was of the mind that there was a fine line between weakness and emoting. Given Prompto’s history—or what they had believed to be his history—he doubted his behavior was a manifestation of the former. In fact, if the way his antics brought a smile to Noct’s face was any indication, Ignis would have wagered that it was a more orchestrated action than anything else.

Regardless of whatever motives or character flaws either of them had, years passed with no change: they were constantly sniping back and forth at one another, Gladio attempting to correct the perceived lack of capability Prompto displayed while the latter used that as an opportunity to slip even further under Gladio’s last nerve. Ordinarily, Ignis paid them little mind; it was easier to ignore them when he had listened to the same conversation in varying renditions for the last five years.

In this instance, however, it was grating on Ignis’s patience and driving him towards the point of no return. This was not the playful squabbling of two friends who enjoyed pretending that they weren’t; it was not the exasperated yet affectionate arguing of brothers, in arms or otherwise.

It was, to put it plainly, the utter _lack_ of productive engagement between two _children_.

The worst of it was that Ignis could not claim to take none of the blame. He _had_ been the one to side with Prompto over Gladio, however reluctantly.

Admittedly, there wasn’t much choice in the matter. They had managed to avoid the conversation in general until the train stopped in Cartanica, although it had been foolish to assume that they would be able to escape it altogether. Sure enough, as soon as they’d stepped out into the evening air to stretch their legs and regroup, the tentative peace between them had shattered so thoroughly that Ignis thought they would be finding shards of it in Fodina Caestino for the next decade.

“I still can’t believe we’re gonna get to meet the Oracle,” Prompto had prattled on as he leaned over the railing and grinned at the distant ocean. “It’s unreal!”

In hindsight, Ignis should have been the one to speak. He should have abandoned his perusal of a merchant’s wares and handled the situation himself. Instead, he had been too slow to intervene when Gladio glared at Prompto with a contemptuous huff.

“ _We_ who?”

There had been a short pause where Prompto’s shoulders stiffened, but that was the only sign that he was at all bothered by Gladio’s retort. Ignis was rather grudgingly impressed with the calm, unaffected manner he maintained when he’d answered, “We _us_.”

“There is no _us_. Thought we made that clear,” Gladio had shot back immediately, folding his arms and assuming the position of someone who refused to be moved in their thinking. That stance always spelled trouble, especially where Noct was concerned.

“And _I_ thought you’d probably realize you guys are gonna need all the help you can get—we _all_ are,” Prompto had corrected himself when he saw how Gladio’s eyes narrowed in response.

From there, things had devolved into what Ignis was calling _organized chaos_ : they had not attracted the attention of any passersby, yet their argument was by no means sensible by any stretch of the imagination. The accusations Gladio had pelted Prompto with were not unfounded—neither was the latter’s insistence that it would behoove them to bring along someone who at least knew a bit more about Ardyn than they did. That, of course, was debatable when they were dealing with a mage whose only goal was to do whatever it was that he wanted. Still, Ignis hadn’t argued. While none of them could boast of understanding Ardyn’s plans to their full extent, there was no denying that maintaining relations with someone who had seen him in action _would_ potentially give them an advantage that they desperately needed.

There was also the unfortunate reality that he knew where they were going and made no bones about saying that he would follow if he had to—at one point, he even suggested they make it a race, much to Gladio’s crimson-faced irritation.

But that was neither here nor there. Excluding any information Prompto might be able to provide when he least expected it and his allegedly good intentions, there were two perfectly valid reasons why bringing him along would be more a detriment than a boon. Unfortunately, and quite unacceptably to Gladio, Ignis could not allow himself to be swayed by either. In the end, the decision had been simple logistically if not emotionally.

As Shield to the future king, there was no question that Gladio’s utmost concern was whether they could trust Prompto, nor could Ignis blame him for it. For five years, he had lied to them about everything, from his background to his purpose in Hammerhead to what exactly it was that he wanted from Noct. Mere friendship certainly sounded better than the alternative, in this case, and he had gone out of his way to paint a picture that King Regis would never suspect of concealing treasonous intent. Even now, as they approached Ravatogh in the hopes of coming one step closer to waking Noct, Ignis could not say with any certainty that he understood the true degree of Prompto’s abilities. He had been trained a spy, yes, but that was all they had been able to discern from anything he had said thus far. It was likely a simple matter of asking: Prompto was intelligent, so he would not deny them an explanation if they requested it, not when he was planning on accompanying them. Perhaps it was Ignis’s own reluctance to find out precisely what they had allowed in such close proximity to Noct all this time without comprehending the danger Prompto posed to his well-being, or maybe he was simply attempting to preserve whatever remained of his delusions that Prompto was as harmless as he had believed these past five years. Either way, he hadn’t brought himself to ask what his position entailed as a so-called _infiltration unit_.

Even without that information, without understanding what had happened to lead him to Hammerhead beyond merely _following orders_ , Ignis remained sure of one thing that Gladio refused to accept: Prompto did not appear to be a threat, at least not anymore. He’d had his doubts when they first found him in the Keep, but then again, what sort of fool wouldn’t? In the intervening days, however, they had seen nothing from him besides seemingly genuine remorse and a willingness—even a _compulsion_ —to atone for his sins. From the moment they released him from his cell, he had only attempted to help them, whether it was through sheer brute force or the dissemination of what little intelligence he had gathered about their enemy. That hardly inspired the sort of suspicion that Gladio still fostered. Besides, Ignis thought it unlikely that Ardyn would attempt to trick them with the same ploy twice. What was the point? Sentimental though they may have been in aiding Prompto to begin with, they were not stupid. For one thing, he had to know that they weren’t likely to believe Prompto about the Crystal of the Six, not without Gentiana’s confirmation. For another, if Ardyn had sent that warrior to accost them on their way out of Zegnautus, then it made no sense that he would have bothered ordering Prompto to save them when it likely would not rekindle their trust in him.

And it hadn’t. His actions did not absolve him of the lies he’d told for years; the Messenger’s approval of his involvement when she _had_ to know of his origins did not ease the weight of guilt in Ignis’s mind for not taking Gladio’s concerns more seriously when they were younger. Whatever he may or may not have done since escaping the Keep, Ignis did not trust Prompto—he merely didn’t believe that he was a danger to them.

Not in the physical sense, at least. Although Ignis was not troubled by the lack of faith Prompto’s actions had inspired, he was less enthused with the idea of bringing him along when he considered the second factor in their decision: _Noct_.

He had already been betrayed by so many of the people in his life, all in the name of keeping him safe. Of course, Ignis did not question that they had done the right thing, even if he had his doubts regarding whether he had gone about discussing the truth in the best manner. He would do it again if he had to, if that was the only way to ensure that Noct was healthy and whole as he deserved to be.

To bring Prompto back to the Citadel with them and allow him into Noct’s life, knowing what they did and that they would have to explain an even more treacherous secret when he woke…

Ignis didn’t like it. It screamed of the sort of setback that they did not need—not now, not after everything Noct had already endured before the curse took effect just over a week ago. When tensions ran high, he was prone to shutting down emotionally. There was a fine line, a breaking point where the shouting and crying all disappeared and _nothing_ took its place. Blank stares and silence—that was all they could expect from him when he entered that state. He was, for lack of better terms, _operational_. In those rare instances, he was still able to go to work and go through the motions of living life as normally as possible. That was all they were, however: _motions_. There was no thought behind them, no feeling beyond that which trapped him within his own mind. Ignis had seen it before, and he knew better than most that there were few ways of reaching Noct on those occasions when he was imprisoned by the weight of the emotions that were too great for him to effectively manage.

He had been close the day they lost him, toeing the line as they stood in the new bedroom that matched his new life and behaved as though they were new people. Noct had hovered over that invisible edge, brought to it by Ignis’s careful indifference and Gladio’s not so subtle browbeating. It was hard to imagine now that he had believed the sound of a slamming door to be so comforting a week ago, but if it meant that Noct hadn’t tipped over the precipice to that place they could never seem to reach, then it was all well enough for Ignis.

Adding Prompto to the mix would be difficult, perhaps even a recipe for disaster, and Ignis was not sure whether Noct would be able to handle it when the time came. In fact, if he was being honest, it was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever made not to let that color his perception of their options. As Noct’s friend and advisor alike, he wished only to shelter him from the realization that Prompto had been working for the enemy—but that was precisely the problem and always had been. Secrets and lies, acting more as a guardian than a brother, doing the right thing in the wrong way had led them to this place.

Ignis would rather shatter his very soul than allow the most minute scratch to touch Noct’s heart.

But he couldn’t do it like this.

That was why he had cast his vote against Gladio and invited Prompto onto the vessel that would take them home to Lucis. That was why he had stared pointedly in the opposite direction whenever he felt the Shield’s eyes glaring holes into the back of his head, why he had nodded in silent affirmation when Prompto thanked him quietly for his support given that he bloody well didn’t deserve it.

That was why he was ignoring every instinct that told him this was a terrible idea: because in the end, bringing Prompto with them would force him to be truthful when it mattered and not capitulate to the innate urge to protect Noct in both body and spirit that had accompanied him since he was seven years old.

It helped more than words could say that the king was on his side. As they came within sight of the Lucian coast, Ignis had wasted no time in calling Master Clarus, only for King Regis to answer instead. His unease had matched Ignis’s, yet he was adamant that he not waver in his course. When Noct woke, he had said, they needed to let him take the wheel. They had spent his entire life driving for him, not telling him where they were going or how they would get there—giving him free rein to make his own choices and control his own destiny for a change was long overdue. According to the king, if the matter of Prompto’s betrayal was the only thing they could leave entirely up to him for the time being, then so be it.

“My son is too strong to fail,” King Regis had assured him, as though it was he and not Ignis who had spent fifteen years at Noct’s side.

In any case, that had been the final blow to Gladio’s arguments, and he had not said another word against Prompto accompanying them since. When it had merely been a matter of Ignis’s opinion, he’d had a chance of swaying his decision, albeit a small one; when the king struck down his reasoning, there was nothing more he could do. Of Gladio’s many faults, lashing out when the battle was lost wasn’t one of them.

That did not mean that he was going to take it lying down, of course, so the two of them had been sniping at each other for approximately three days straight. It was an understatement to say that Ignis’s nerves were fraying _thin_.

If Prompto opened his mouth and uttered even the most benign of observations, Gladio shut him down with extreme prejudice. If Gladio voiced a concern for what awaited them when they arrived at Ravatogh, Prompto was prepared with a sarcastic remark about Shields being _fraidy-cats_. Each interaction grew progressively less mature as they approached their destination until Ignis was quite positive he had never heard anything so childish—and he was speaking as the one who had watched while Noct and Gladio put motor oil in Cindy’s shampoo once to see if it would dye her hair black. (It hadn’t, but she’d retaliated by replacing Noct’s favorite juices with pureed vegetables. Ignis remembered that tearful phone call and his resultant need to insist that he’d had it coming.)

Needless to say, when they pulled up at the convenience store to refuel the car, Ignis was more than ready to put some space between the two of them. He wasn’t certain of what they would encounter on the Ravatogh Trail, but he had heard that it was not for the faint of heart. If that was indeed the case, then they needed to have their wits about them, not muddled with ridiculous nonsense; that was not even mentioning the humiliation it would mean enduring if Lady Lunafreya had to witness their idiocy. Certainly, though, they wouldn’t be so bold as to behave that way in front of the Oracle.

As if reading his thoughts and endeavoring to prove him wrong, Prompto stepped out of the car and gaped up at the sight of the volcano looming over the outpost. “Whoa… So _that’s_ Ravatogh?”

“Sure ain’t Altissia,” observed Gladio with a roll of his eyes. Prompto simply snorted.

“Kinda figured that from the fire ‘n’ stuff.”

“You mean the _lava_?”

“Does _lava_ make those big red rock thingies? Because I’m pretty sure that’s not how that works, dude.”

“Why don’t you get a little closer and find out?”

“Are you two quite finished?” snapped Ignis, although it came out sounding more exasperated than he intended. When they turned to stare at him, he huffed impatiently and scolded, “I understand that the situation is less than desirable, but your pointless bickering will _not_ make it any easier to complete our mission. Once we begin our ascent, it will be necessary for all of us to watch out for the others. That requires cooperation, and if both of you are too busy behaving like a couple of poorly trained chocobos, then you are endangering more than just each other.”

As he’d intended, that last bit appeared to cut through the stubborn walls that both of them had been constructing as he spoke. Ignis found it difficult to believe that they could write one another off with so little difficulty, especially when they had been friends for this long; if anything, he assumed that it was hurt feelings prompting their awkward exchanges, and understandably so. Either way, regardless of whether Gladio gave a damn about Prompto’s well-being or vice versa, they shared the same purpose in coming here to begin with: saving Noct. Ignis was not above using that against them, not if it offered even a drop of perspective or an ounce of quietude.

At the very least, it seemed to work for now. Gladio shot Prompto an uneasy, halfhearted glare that was met with a sheepish shrug in return. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought they were simply standing in Takka’s attempting to compromise on how long they would play video games, so familiar was that gesture. Those days were long gone, however, as was the peace that came with them. Ignis would not fool himself into believing that this was the end of their arguing or that their grievances were assuaged in light of their responsibility to Noct. Still, if it got them through what they had to do next, then they could cross that bridge when they had the time to do so.

For now, he nodded resolutely and basked in the blessed silence as he rounded the car to survey the outpost with a critical eye. It certainly made Hammerhead feel more spacious, if nothing else. Besides a ramshackle caravan and the minuscule convenience store, there was nothing more to it. In fact, Ignis had to confess that he was somewhat surprised: this was the nearest civilization to the Rock of Ravatogh, one of the most famous and frequently visited landmarks in all of Lucis. He had never been here himself, of course, having too many responsibilities to manage between his work at the Citadel and attending to Noct over the years. From what he had read, he would have thought they would find a sprawling, crowded tourist attraction fraught with any number of people who would jump at the opportunity to meet Lady Lunafreya if they discovered she was in the vicinity.

_This_ was…not quite what he had in mind.

That was likely for the best, especially if they meant to keep their ventures a secret. They couldn’t possibly know what Ardyn’s plans for them were, before _or_ after they found the Crystal, so it was better to move as quietly as possible. The last thing they needed was to involve civilians should a struggle ensue. Broadcasting the Oracle’s presence, even to but a handful of people, was counterproductive to that purpose. It was fortunate, then, that he had been wrong in his initial assessment, odd as it still seemed.

Even more fortunate was that it did not appear the Oracle was actually at the outpost to begin with. There were few places to check, and a quick glance inside the convenience store convinced him that, apart from two hunters who looked the worse for wear, it was just them visiting Ravatogh today.

A glance over his shoulder told him that Gladio was similarly surveying the lay of the land, only unlike Ignis, it appeared to set him ill at ease not to find the princess of Tenebrae waiting for them where they’d expected.

“You see her?” he asked, already aware of the answer if the state of his frown was any indication.

Ignis shook his head anyway, replying with a placating wave of his hand, “It’s possible that she went ahead without us. Remaining here for long may have posed a significant threat to her safety.”

“Unless she never got out in the first place,” retorted Gladio without pause. He always did have a knack for identifying that which Ignis did not want to think about.

“Gentiana said—”

“I don’t give a damn what she said,” he interrupted, snorting. “Didn’t hear her sayin’ she was gonna offer a hand or anything.”

Shuffling in place, Prompto nervously chimed in, “He’s right, Iggy. I mean, Lady Lunafreya _has_ to be watched pretty close, right? How do we know she didn’t get caught?”

The shock of actually agreeing for a change didn’t keep Gladio from nodding grudgingly or adding, “She’s all by herself out there. Gotta figure it’s hard enough to escape Tenebrae without being its princess.”

As much as Ignis hated to admit it, they weren’t entirely mistaken in that regard. After all, wasn’t that Gladio’s initial reason for being skeptical of Prompto’s story before he’d hinted that he’d received assistance from the Oracle in his fictional escape? Refugees from imperial territories were few, particularly where Tenebrae was concerned. The emperor—or Ardyn, rather—had to know the sense of failure King Regis felt at not having been able to provide aid when their need was most dire, which meant that their hold on that region would be stronger than anywhere else. Then there was Ravus, who was nearly as bad. Present or not, would he have allowed an opening for his sister to slip away unseen? If he thought that she would help the ones he held responsible for the death of his mother, then Ignis thought it highly unlikely that that was the case.

There was one thing they were forgetting, however, that made all those arguments moot.

“We aren’t speaking of a simple _princess_ ,” he pointed out pedantically. “I needn’t remind you that the Oracle is a mage of equal power to her comrades.”

Gladio shook his head, his lips turned down and a familiar bitterness in his tone when he shot back, “And _I_ shouldn’t have to remind _you_ that she hasn’t done shit up till now. Every time we’ve needed her, she’s nowhere to be found. What, the big, powerful Oracle can find her way out now but not then?”

Admittedly, Ignis had no immediate response for that, and Gladio knew it. For years, they had both mourned the loss of the Oracle as a potential ally in helping Noct after he had been attacked outside Hammerhead. If she had been there, perhaps Noct wouldn’t have a scar that stretched across the length of his back in silent reminder of what he had suffered; if she had been there, perhaps years of nightmares and fear could have been avoided.

Instead, she sent her dog. She sent a recipe. She sent anything she could that did not require her presence.

It was not enough, but it was a great deal more than she could have managed.

So, rather than following Gladio down the avenues of his hardened disgust at the Oracle’s inability to act, Ignis opened his mouth to insist that they should not yet lose faith only to swallow his retort almost immediately. Lady Lunafreya was not at the outpost, no, but it appeared that she hadn’t left them entirely alone as he’d feared.

“It seems that our presence was expected,” he observed, pointing over Gladio’s shoulder towards where Umbra was waiting for them near the caravan.

The disbelief etched into his features was marred only by the long-suffering groan he uttered when he spun around and stared at their canine visitor. Having been party to Umbra’s random appearances for the last fifteen years as well, Ignis knew exactly how he felt despite the convenience in this instance.

“How the hell does that dog end up _everywhere_?”

“Quite by design, I’d imagine,” hummed Ignis with a satisfied smirk. Finally, their luck was changing.

“W-Wait…” Prompto frowned, glancing between them and the dog so quickly that the tendons in his neck were liable to snap. “You’re telling me…all this time…?”

“That Umbra was a servant of the Oracle?” Ignis finished for him. When Prompto nodded mutely, he confirmed, “Indeed. He has been watching over Noct since he was a child. I confess, I didn’t expect to find him here of all places.”

Scoffing, Gladio grumbled, “Why not? Ain’t like Lady Lunafreya ever does anything in person.”

“I think it more likely that she did not want to fuel rumors of her arrival in Lucis by tarrying here,” Ignis reprimanded him without much conviction. They’d had this argument on too many occasions over the years for him to bother attempting to change the Shield’s mind, nor could he say that he didn’t understand his frustrations. Still, he did hope that the Oracle would put some of his grievances to rest when they met. Otherwise, this was going to be incredibly awkward.

“So…we just follow him?” inquired Prompto curiously in an obvious attempt to get them back on track. Ignis was only too happy to play along.

“I see no other alternative.”

Hopefully it was a sign of things to come that Gladio did not respond with another comment on Lady Lunafreya’s perpetual absence, although Ignis thought he might have preferred that to the way he seemed to deflate as his righteous indignation bled away to reveal something grieving yet determined in its wake.

Never could it be said that Gladio was as unfeeling or impersonal as many tended to assume given his position. It was indeed the duty of every Shield to forsake emotion and personal attachments in order to fulfill their vows to their lieges, something that he had grown exceptionally adept at doing as they’d matured. There were moments when Ignis could practically _see_ Gladio compartmentalizing, hiding away the part of himself that had teased his bespectacled friend and played with Noct when they were young so that the gruff, powerful bodyguard could take precedence. Yet at times like these, when he dropped his rigid posture, sighed heavily, and started towards Umbra with a steady gait, there was no denying that he felt the immense weight of their task. They all did in their own ways, and while their burden was ever present, it seemed all the more onerous now given what they stood to lose if they failed.

Was Gladio the most respectful when it came to the Astrals and their mages? No. Did he find fault in them as he would anyone else? Yes. Would he set that aside in order to rescue their brother, their prince?  

Without a doubt.

“Well? You ladies comin’ or what?” he called, already kneeling to give Umbra a good scratch behind the ears for his punctuality if not his mistress’s.

Briefly ensuring that he had locked the car behind them (vehicles like these were rare in the outer regions, and he was not going to take any chances with Citadel property if he could help it), Ignis followed suit with Prompto at his heels. As soon as they approached the wayward dog, Umbra wriggled away from Gladio’s ministrations with a bark and took off down the side of the road towards Ravatogh.

_I suppose we’ll be getting right to it, then._

“Didn’t know we needed a guide dog,” snorted Gladio as they raced after him. Ignis chuckled dryly.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t _blind_ yourself to less orthodox possibilities.”

“ _Eye’ll_ have to keep that in mind.”

“Ugh, please _stop_ ,” groaned Prompto, speeding up so that he could leave their banter behind. “You guys are awful at that.”

Smirking, Gladio seemed to temporarily forget their quarrel and called to him, “You wanna show us how it’s done?”

“Pass! I only tell _good_ jokes.”

“Chocobo puns ain’t what I’d call _good_.”

“Better than yours!”

Their exchange brought a smile to Ignis’s face, even if the nostalgia didn’t last long. He was no fool: when they came to the end of their road, when Noct was awake and the hour of reckoning arrived, this passing camaraderie would cease to be anything more than a distant memory. They had set aside their distrust to finish what they’d started, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t _many_ things they still needed to discuss with regards to Prompto. Time hadn’t been on their side in that sense, and as they jogged up the street with the mountain looming ever larger in front of them, Ignis had to swallow the sudden surge of discomfort that he’d managed to quash since they left the empire.

They had one priority, and one priority alone. Everything else—their thoughts and feelings in particular—could wait until later.

As luck had it, there was no time for him to dwell on matters that had been relinquished to their future selves’ care. It was quite a distance from the outpost to Ravatogh, but he required every moment to catalogue their surroundings. They had long since abandoned the trees and greenery of Duscae, leaving nothing on either side of the road but black, volcanic dust that imitated soil. Rocks jutted out of the landscape, growing larger on the approach to the trail that would lead them into the mountain itself, and Ignis abruptly understood why it was that so many tourists ventured out here to hike and climb. Of all the impressive sights Lucis had to offer, he could only assume that the view from atop Ravatogh was ravishing.

The tableau was no less impressive from below, as a matter of fact. Not even the Citadel could claim to reach such lofty heights as some of the lower extensions of the mountain’s face. Ancient eruptions had carved intricate designs into the rock, creating waterfalls without moisture and skyscrapers without metal; from its invisible depths rose tendrils of volcanic matter that had congealed into fiery stems long ago, their flaming insides a kaleidoscope of brilliant reds and oranges.

And at its center, a massive pillar of stone whose height he could not begin to fathom. In the legends Ignis had read as a child, it was said that one of the Six had been laid to rest in this place, that Ravatogh itself was all that remained of the prehistoric pyre—and that the pillar was all that remained of the deity.

He had never thought more of it than that: a story, one passed down through generations in order to garner sympathy for the gods that had allegedly protected the world from utter annihilation. Now, however, considering what they had come for… Well, he had to wonder if there was more to it than he had originally assumed.

It was yet another matter to be pondered later. For the moment, they were busy enough trailing after Umbra as he steered them off the road and onto the Ravatogh Trail. It was called a trail, at least; all Ignis could see of it was a marginally lighter shade of grey amidst the black dirt. The rocks towered over them as they stepped into the shadow of the volcano, and the path eventually disappeared as they came within sight of a narrow passage in the side that was ostensibly meant as an entrance.

“Oh… Em… Gee…” whispered Prompto as they passed under a gargantuan outcropping, peering up at the molten branches issuing from above.

Refreshingly, Gladio did not berate him for his enchantment, sounding equally entranced when he murmured, “Pretty spectacular, huh?”

“Quite,” agreed Ignis briskly. In all honesty, he cared less for the scenery than he did for paying close attention to Umbra. It was no secret that he tended to vanish when you least expected it, and while he was positive that the dog _wanted_ them to follow, there was no telling whether he would grow impatient and simply choose to wait ahead.

For now, he was trotting along at a leisurely pace, allowing them an opportunity to gawp before the ground veered sharply upward and it required all their concentration to navigate the slippery stones. The path was still clearly defined, mainly due to the fact that there was no other way to ascend: they were surrounded by immense walls of stone that were worn smooth by eruptions from time immemorial and natural erosion. It made finding a handhold difficult as they tripped up the slope, yet they persisted in Umbra’s wake.

Four legs did him more good than their two, and he had already reached the top by the time they managed to wend their way along the treacherous yet aesthetically fascinating trail.

Nor was he the only one.

Where the road forked ahead, he spotted the outline of a woman sitting on a rocky outcropping. At first glance, she appeared unremarkable enough that Ignis would have thought nothing of her presence in any other situation. This trail was, of course, open to the public; anyone could visit at their leisure to appreciate its natural beauty. Come to think of it, he found it rather surprising that they hadn’t run into anyone yet, regardless of how deserted the outpost had been. The weather was warm, the sky clear—there was no reason for the mountain to be uninhabited as it was.

But Ignis counted that as a blessing, especially when he noticed that their fellow traveler was similarly overdressed for the hike. That or she made it a habit of wearing fashionable double-breasted coats, light-colored silk scarves, and impressively tall heels when she took to the outdoors. Somehow, he doubted that.

Utterly unperturbed with the soot and ash that rained down on her visibly expensive outfit from above, the Oracle stood to greet them with a calm smile when Umbra came to sit at her feet.

“Is… Is that…?”

“Yup.”

“Lady Lunafreya, please forgive our delay,” Ignis announced, sweeping into a deep bow as they approached. Gladio immediately mirrored him and, after a brief bout of confused dallying, Prompto took their example as well.

Whether it was his ineptitude or their shared show of formality, the Oracle’s smile softened into something more affectionate that Ignis wasn’t positive he understood. They had never met, and while they _had_ been in remote contact over the years, Ignis never would have recognized her for who she was if not for the photographs that occasionally reached Lucian magazines from abroad. Her gaze spoke of familiarity, however, like they were friends meeting for the first time after a long absence. It was more comforting than he ever would have imagined, and he found himself immensely grateful, especially when he caught sight of Prompto beside him. For as excited as he had been to make the Oracle’s acquaintance on their journey, he was being awfully shy about it now that the moment had arrived. In fact, he made quite sure that he remained half hidden behind Gladio, as if he thought Lady Lunafreya would not accept his presence and send him on his way.

Sadly, Ignis had to acknowledge that his concerns were valid: if anyone had a right to some level of bitterness towards the empire, he supposed she was entitled to more than most.

Yet the Oracle was known to be unfailingly kind and unerringly compassionate. Ignis could see it as she surveyed them, her gaze patient and her smile unfaltering as she inclined her head in response.

“You’ve no need to apologize,” she waved him off graciously. “I was not waiting long.”

“Couldn’t’ve been too far ahead of us,” Gladio grunted with a calculating frown. Much like Gentiana, Lady Lunafreya took his less than reverent approach in stride.

“Not at all, though I admit that my own path was different by necessity.”

“R-Right,” chuckled Prompto nervously, seeming to regret it a moment later when her eyes fell on him. Even so, he swallowed hard and bravely continued, “Not—Not like you could just walk out the front door…or anything…”

Shaking her head with a soft laugh of her own, Lady Lunafreya joked, “It is simple to do as I please when my brother is away, but I’m afraid not _that_ simple.”

“We did hear that Lord Ravus has not been in Fenestala Manor for some time,” Ignis ventured cautiously, unsure of how his prying would be received.

The Oracle did not appear to mind, although her smile faded a fraction as she replied, “Ravus tells me nothing of his actions. We seldom agree when he does.”

“He wasn’t in the empire, least not where we could see,” Gladio pointed out searchingly.

“I’m not surprised,” she murmured, eyes downcast. “He does not heed Emperor Aldercapt’s wishes and seeks only to liberate Tenebrae from the hands of the empire one day.”

“Probably not gonna have too hard a time of that anymore.”

When Lady Lunafreya merely frowned at Gladio without comprehending his meaning, Ignis explained, “The emperor has passed. From what we gathered in Gralea, it appears to have been a while ago.”

“Then Ardyn has assumed control of the empire,” she immediately inferred, her expression turning grim when they nodded in affirmation.

Perhaps it was a mite less subtle than Ignis would have liked, but he couldn’t disagree when Gladio humorlessly huffed, “Would’ve thought Gentiana might fill you in.”

“The Messenger is…not always forthcoming with information,” admitted Luna with cautious care. Her confidence, however, was unwavering when she continued, “Yet I trust her decision to divulge what she will. Not all moments are the best to hear certain news.”

That was a sensible enough approach, one that Ignis wholeheartedly approved of. There was a reason why mortals were not offered direct contact with the Six: if they did not have Gentiana to filter the information, to decide what they needed and what they did not, then most would undoubtedly become overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of the world around them. Even Ignis was not entirely certain whether he would be able to handle the weight of the knowledge the gods granted the Messenger; sometimes it was necessary to remain in the dark and follow a logical course of discovery to its rational end. The alternative meant chaos on a scale that had not been seen since the wars of old, and Ignis was not eager to experience similar trials. They already had enough to be getting on with.

Which was why he redirected the conversation to the task at hand as deftly and unobtrusively as possible: “Ardyn’s ascension makes it even more imperative that we stop him. If we don’t…”

_The world will suffer. The shadows will reign._

_Noct will never wake._

There was no way for Lady Lunafreya to know the contents of his thoughts or the guilt of his conscience, but he felt as though she was able to glean his motives regardless. Perhaps Gentiana had informed her of that much, at the very least.

“His scourge has plagued the world for too long,” she agreed with a resolute nod that seemed incongruous with her heretofore gentle demeanor. “If we do not act now, more will fall to him until everything fades to darkness and all we hold dear is gone.”

“You, uh… _do_ know that means destroying the Crystal, right?” asked Prompto, leaning around Gladio in his curiosity.

When Lady Lunafreya merely nodded in somber silence, Gladio picked up where Prompto left off and inquired, “You _do_ realize that destroying the Crystal means you lose your powers, right?”

“I do,” she replied without hesitation, her smile returning. If anything, that appeared to baffle them further, not that Ignis could say he was faring much better. Understanding the necessity of their actions was one thing, but to be so comfortable with the idea of losing the gifts that had run in her family for centuries? It was admirable, if a bit confusing.

Still, her ease was unflappable, and Ignis sympathized when Prompto tentatively inquired, “And you’re still cool with smashing it?”

“It is a small price to pay to heal the damage Ardyn has wrought on so many and free them from the shadow of his ambitions,” she sighed, shaking her head. “All things can be corrupted, even those made with the best intentions. It is time I set things right for the good of everyone, not myself.”

“Beyond mere supposition, we cannot know what else will transpire when the Crystal’s power is extinguished, for you as well as the other mages,” Ignis admitted by way of warning.

It made no difference to the Oracle, who lightly accused him, “You have so little faith.”

“Yeah,” scoffed Gladio, glaring down at his feet, “not doin’ so great with that sorta thing lately."

It was an oddly sentimental admission, one that he cleverly attempted to wrap in the contempt that he had been struggling to maintain ever since they’d left Gralea. Whether he meant to be so transparent or not, Ignis knew that Lady Lunafreya could see that he spoke for more than merely himself. In reality, while their determination to see this through had not been diluted by the obstacles in their path, there was no denying that they had little in the way of conviction anymore. What was faith when the cards were forever stacked against them? What was hope when everything they did came to naught? How did they go on when they were rebuffed at every turn by an enemy they could not anticipate?

They had traveled the world in but a week, without rest and without respite, and had nothing to show for it thus far. Noct still slept; Ardyn still held the reins. In spite of their own efforts, the possibility that they would fail overshadowed everything until it felt as though they were wading through the darkness, trying to find the light to no avail. Killing the traitor mage was all they had left, and their _faith_ was not the only thing that was running low as time wore on.

Yet their suffering paled in comparison to the Oracle’s. In her lifetime, she had lost her mother, her brother, and her freedom; she had spent years imprisoned and alone. Whether it was the nature of her calling or merely the tenacity of her character, she could still smile. She could still carry on, believing that all things were possible. She could still reach out her hand and lay it on Gladio’s arm, forcing him to meet her eyes, where there was nothing to be found but the strength and determination they were in such desperate need of.

“Have hope,” she told him, although her words were clearly meant for them as well. “Darkness always passes and comes to light.”

Perhaps a bit simplistic, especially with regards to their plight, but her confidence seemed to strike a chord with Gladio nonetheless. To Ignis’s complete astonishment and delight, he did not tell her where she could stick those thoughts, nor did he brush aside her kindness with harsh words. No mention of her inability to rescue Noct from the darkness she spoke of passed his lips, and he bowed his head in grudging respect as he shuffled awkwardly under her gaze.

The shift in his demeanor notwithstanding, he _was_ still Gladio, and that meant that he would not give voice to his emotions in the presence of the Oracle no matter how ceaselessly they prodded him. Rather, he cleared his throat uncomfortably and jerked his head towards the billowing column of smoke emitting above them.

“Yeah, well… Should probably get this over with.”

_Tactless, Gladio. Positively tactless._

Lady Lunafreya did not hold it against him, however. If anything, she appeared to share his opinion and took a step backwards, her expression hardening with determination as she followed his line of sight.

“Yes,” she announced, already in motion. “This should have ended long ago.”

With that, she turned her back to them and started up the steep slope on the right, obviously expecting them to follow. It was a rather abrupt end to the conversation, all things considered, and he couldn’t help a twinge of discomfort at the fact that they were setting off without the most basic foundations of a plan laid before them. Well, beyond simply plowing their way to the Crystal and letting Lady Lunafreya take it from there. Then again, did they really need more than that at this juncture? The Oracle’s knowledge was greater than their own with regards to what it was they were doing; he trusted her judgment, even if it left him slightly ill at ease not to be a bit more certain himself.

Nevertheless, there was no use waiting around here. The clock was ticking, and as engaging as the discussion had been, they hadn’t come to socialize. There would be plenty of time for that when they were finished and on their way back to Insomnia, preferably with Lady Lunafreya accompanying them so that she would not have to return to the so-called life she’d led in Tenebrae. Without her powers, there was no telling what would happen if she went back. No, the safer road was with them; they would merely have to convince her of that.

_Later_.

At the moment, he needed to be more observant of his surroundings. The path was turning treacherous ahead; not even Umbra was willing to risk it, waiting where they’d left him instead of joining their meager procession. Ignis supposed it was only to be expected that their road would not be so simple as they had hoped: the Crystal of the Six should not be an easy resource to find, after all. As such, he shoved his thoughts to the rear of his mind and focused singularly on not slipping right back down the steep, ash-covered acclivity. Even Gladio, who was more of an outdoorsman than Ignis could ever boast of being or aspiring to, was having difficulty. The stones on either side of the increasingly narrow path were their only salvation, providing just enough of a grip for them to drag themselves up in places.

How the Oracle was able to manage was beyond him, yet it appeared that she was somehow better equipped to make the ascent than they were. Perhaps there was some invisible force, some powerful magic keeping mere mortals at bay while someone of her special talents was allowed simpler passage; maybe she was merely an excellent climber, doubtful as he was given her choice of footwear. Either way, she needed no help of her own, even though Prompto hastened to provide it anytime it seemed as though she might stumble.

Ignis did _not_ want to find that as encouraging as he regrettably did, and he averted his gaze with each steadying hand he offered and grateful smile she replied with.

When they reached the pinnacle of what Ignis realized was nothing more than a thin shelf, the ground falling steeply away on one side with nothing to catch you but the rocky ground far below, the four of them were all a touch out of breath. It wasn’t entirely due to the stress of the climb, however: as they rounded the corner and peered up the mountainside before them, he saw that they were roughly level with the molten stems that had looked so far away until now. The intensifying heat was even more indicative of their proximity to the heart of the volcano that Gentiana had warned them of, making his chest heavy and sending sweat trickling down the back of his shirt.

“So, how do we do this, anyway?” Prompto huffed, leaning forward on his knees and clutching a stitch in his side as he glanced up at Lady Lunafreya. When she merely eyed him in puzzlement, he clarified, “Y’know, kill the Crystal and all.”

Nodding, the Oracle allowed them a moment to recover (she apparently had little need of it herself, furthering Ignis’s suspicions that they were indeed suffering the effects of some invisible magic) and explained, “An ancient weapon crafted by the gods themselves was gifted to the first Oracle so that she might purge the lands of darkness if the other mages fell to its influence.”

Gladio’s earlier gentleness slipped somewhat as he all but demanded, “You’re tellin’ me there’s been a way to kill Ardyn all this time and nobody used it?”

“Not Ardyn himself,” amended Lady Lunafreya with a pensive frown as she carefully framed her next words. “The Oracle cannot kill, only heal.”

“Not much of a weapon, then,” he grumbled. Rather than letting her respond, he added skeptically, “And how exactly is crushing some rock with it considered _healing_?”

“It is a weapon against the power of the gods should it be turned against mankind. By purging it from the Crystal, the blight upon the world that was born from the corruption of that power will be diminished. No longer will it be used for evil purposes.”

“You mean, _Ardyn’s_ purposes,” guessed Prompto, preening importantly when Lady Lunafreya nodded.

“Yes. Once the blessings he was granted by the Six are revoked, the immortality he was gifted should be rescinded.”

“And…if it’s not?”

To that, the Oracle offered no response. She merely smiled sadly before turning and treading up the path, the three of them sharing an uneasy glance before following suit.

Well, Ignis supposed that was answer enough. The entire venture had always been a gamble, one that they were more likely to lose than win, if he was being honest. No amount of optimism could convince him that this endeavor would work entirely as they wished, even if it did make the road to Ardyn’s downfall bit more manageable to travel. If the Oracle and Messenger alike could not promise that the latter was possible, however…

Was Ardyn’s power so great, so bastardized from their own gifts, that they couldn’t measure the extent of his abilities anymore? It was no surprise that mere mortals were unable to fathom his talents: they were not endowed with the divine blessings of the gods in the first place and were therefore ill-equipped to make that judgment. The remaining mages, on the other hand, were powerful in their own right; he would have expected them to have more answers than it appeared that they did.

That was a disconcerting thought, especially when combined with the uncomfortable sensation that had been plaguing Ignis ever since Prompto mentioned the Crystal on the train. It wasn’t that he did not believe him—after everything that had happened, after Gentiana and Lady Lunafreya had both agreed to intervene on their behalf, he found it impossible to do otherwise. Nor was there any arguing that this was not a necessary venture, regardless of the consequences. He simply couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something very _wrong_ about all this. As they traversed the barren waste that led to the center of Ravatogh, as they coughed and sputtered over their own breath in the searing heat around them, as they hissed in pain when their shoes caught on the blistering rocks beneath them—with every step that brought them closer to the Crystal, his mind whirled faster with all the thoughts he hadn’t put into words before.

_Why_ had Ardyn mentioned the Crystal at all? Was it to fool them into wasting precious time, or would he be waiting to meet them at the top?

But that made no sense: he could have finished them in Gralea if that was his game.

And why didn’t he? What use could there possibly be in keeping them alive? He had cornered them; they had entered of their own volition, and he could have locked the doors tight behind them. Why hadn’t he?

What _game_ was he playing?

Their path was _right_ , he knew that. Lady Lunafreya knew it, as did Gentiana. The Crystal needed to be destroyed, but there was simultaneously something _wrong_ about the whole thing. Maddeningly, he simply could not decipher _what_.

But it stung him with every footfall. It niggled at the back of his mind with each glance at the Oracle’s solemn yet determined expression. It intensified with Prompto’s discomfort and burned him with Gladio’s visible doubt.

They could not turn back, though. So long as the possibility existed that this was the key to ending Ardyn and waking Noct, they had to see it through. No matter how wrong it _felt_ , Ignis _knew_ it to be the correct path.

So he kept his mouth closed and did not utter a word about his fears to his companions. Rather, he trained his eyes on the road ahead, the air wavering above it from the humidity.

In spite of his unfaltering attention, he did not immediately realize that they had reached their destination until the Oracle stopped and held out a hand for them to do the same. The sight that greeted them was awesome in every sense: a cavern extending into the heart of the mountain and a river of lava issuing from its mouth into the crevice below. The searing heat dried his eyes behind his glasses before he could do more than acquire a cursory glance, and Ignis was forced to shield them from the bright and overwhelming warmth of the inferno. It did nothing to help, not that he was surprised to discover that that was the case. Standing in the center of a volcano, he would have thought they’d all burst into flames by now.

Lady Lunafreya was the only one of them who was unbothered by their surroundings. Her steps were purposeful yet unhurried as she moved to stand at the edge of the precipice, and Ignis couldn’t blame Prompto for his wordless yelp of distress at her nearness to the invisible barrier between them and certain death. Yet the danger did not seem to give her pause: she did not heed him, raising both arms with her palms facing skyward. Ignis could not hear the words she said over the splashing and gurgling of the molten river, but whatever she asked was obviously not meant for them or anyone else on Eos. Theirs were not the ears that mattered here.

The gods must have answered her calls, because an instant later, light flashed from her fingertips and stood in stark contrast to the conflagration framing her slight figure. At first, Ignis could not tell what had happened, his eyes were tearing so heavily with the heat—then he saw it. Where there had previously been naught but empty air, the Oracle held a silver trident longer than she was tall, its aura dazzling white against the hellish background of fire.

_So, this is the weapon that can rival the power of the Six_ , he mused silently. A glance at Gladio told him the latter was equally impressed, and they shared a hopeful smile as Lady Lunafreya sank to her knees with the trident clutched firmly in her hands.

This time, it was as though her words were magnified tenfold, and Ignis could see immediately the change her calling had wrought. The kind princess and the gentle healer were gone; in their place was a warrior, a woman determined to set the world to rights even if they failed to expel Ardyn from it. When she raised her eyes to the cave, they blazed brighter than the sea of lava before her.

“Blessed stars of life and light,” she called, the trident glowing more illustriously with each syllable, “reveal to me that which lies beyond my sight.”

The effect was instant, and for a moment, Ignis didn’t trust his own eyes: there was simply no way that the amorphous, shifting mass could congeal so quickly into scorched earth. There was no logical reason for the heat that he suspected had been making quick work of their eyebrows to dissipate almost entirely, leaving his skin prickling with a sudden chill where the wind blew against the back of his neck.

It was frankly impossible for a volcanic river to form a steaming yet sturdy bridge where there had been nothing half a second prior.

Yet that was exactly what met his gaze when he lowered his arm, the quiet sounds of Prompto’s awe confirming that he was indeed seeing properly. Distantly, the part of himself that had long since accepted the oddness of this venture berated him for his oversight—Lady Lunafreya was the _Oracle_ , and as such, she had powers that were beyond their comprehension. Still, he never would have dreamed that something like this was possible, even when it stood right before his eyes.

From the looks of it, and to his relief, he was not the only one taken aback at the display.

“You done this kinda thing before?” asked Gladio, eyebrows practically shaking hands with his hairline as he stared with an impressed nod.

The ghost of a smirk crossed her lips when she replied, “No,” and stepped casually onto the newly formed landmass.

“Comforting.”

“Sometimes you’ve just gotta take a leap of faith,” supplied Prompto, although the fact that his voice sounded an octave higher than usual suggested that he was less enthusiastic with his own advice than he let on.

They had come this far, however, and Ignis could at least say that trusting the Oracle was a far cry more reasonable than most anyone else. So, with a deep breath and his eyes carefully avoiding the ground, Ignis took the first step onto their makeshift bridge and hastened across to keep up with Lady Lunafreya.

It turned out that they needn’t have worried: new and untested though it was, the structure held up as if it had been there as long as the rest of the mountain. Then again, perhaps it _had_ —perhaps it was merely invisible until the right person called upon it to appear. Much stranger things had happened in the last week alone.

Where the cavern on the other side had been lit up by the lava and magma within, whatever Lady Lunafreya had done turned it all to stone, obscuring their path until Ignis could no longer see once the light of day faded behind them. Foolishly, he had not considered just how far into Ravatogh its _heart_ would be, and they cautiously picked their way through the darkness with their footsteps echoing deafeningly around them.

“ _Thiiiiiis_ is fine… This is _tooootally_ okay…” whispered Prompto behind him—or was he beside him? Wherever he was, his quiet reassurances sparked Gladio’s typical retaliation.

“Niff spy can’t handle a cave?” he scoffed.

Ignis could almost hear Prompto rolling his eyes when he retorted, “Definitely more of an _above_ ground kinda guy.”

“Wuss.”

Quite contradictory to his words, muffled rustling heralded a sudden flash of light as Gladio’s phone screen lit up, dimly illuminating the vicinity and throwing grotesque shadows along the walls. Prompto—who was indeed beside him—chuckled nervously and edged a bit closer.

“Uh, not really helping here, dude.”

“Better than nothin’.”

“Have no fear, Prompto,” Lady Lunafreya interrupted, her tone tinged with amusement. “One must first traverse the tunnel to find the light that shines within.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Ignis would have thought it appropriate to thank her for her attempt at comfort. Prompto, however, was _Prompto_.

“Y-You know my name?” he all but squeaked, and Ignis didn’t believe he was imagining the way his cheeks appeared to redden in the pale glow of Gladio’s phone.

“I know all of your names.”

“Whoa! Man, I didn’t even think Gentiana knew I _existed_.”

Her steps faltered for a moment before Lady Lunafreya replied, “I didn’t learn of you from Gentiana.”

“O-Oh,” stammered Prompto, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Then, uh… Who _did_ tell you?”

A beat of silence, then, “Someone who speaks very highly of you all.”

Apparently, she didn’t wish to say any more than that, nor did they press her for a name. What with her seemingly constant vigilance from afar and remote presence in Hammerhead all these years, it really shouldn’t have come as a shock that she was aware of their identities well before today—even Prompto’s, although Ignis had a few questions about that. She hadn’t reacted to Gladio’s comment, which meant she already knew. For how long was a mystery, yet Ignis found it difficult to believe that she wouldn’t have sent some clue along with Umbra if she felt he was a threat to Noct’s safety. She had, after all, done far more in certain situations.

Ignis made a mental note to bring that up among the other seemingly endless list of topics they needed to discuss later when a pinprick of light appeared ahead of them, adding to what little Gladio was providing until he could discern the outline of an archway ahead.

“We’re here,” warned the Oracle. The clicking of her heels quickened, and the rest of them sped up to keep pace with her as the luminescence grew larger and larger.

That they had arrived was something Ignis could have worked out for himself. Indeed, it was difficult to miss the sudden widening of the tunnel from a slightly claustrophobic hole to a cavern that put the Citadel’s throne room to shame. Its size was so massive that he could not see the ceiling, the blue-tinged walls climbing upwards until they disappeared into the darkness above. Unlike the rest of the mountain, it appeared that this place had not been touched by the volatile scenery outside: the rock was smooth as marble, unworn by the passage of time and the elements. Of course, that was only to be expected when there were no other entrances than the enchanted one they had traveled through. The air was not stifling or stagnant, however; if anything, it was easier to breathe in here than it had been on their pilgrimage to the top.

And at the center of it all, a beacon of light and divine grace, was the Crystal of the Six. In the myriad legends Ignis had studied, not once had it been illustrated. He could only assume that it was considered sacrilege to do so, given its significance in the beliefs of their people extending all the way from the times of ancient Solheim and beyond. In some ways, Ignis was quite glad that no one had attempted to capture its likeness, even from their imagination: there was no chance that even the most renowned, talented artists could do it any justice.

The outside was admittedly unimpressive, the smooth black stone unmarred by blemishes or the scarring of the ages. Its only imperfection could hardly be called that at all: an opening in its face, the edges uneven and distorted, with innumerable tiny shards of crystal reaching out towards them. They were resplendent in the brilliant white glow that seemed to emanate from the very core of the Crystal itself, shimmering and glittering as though the sun had somehow reached through the side of the mountain to grace them with its light.

Ignis had never set much store by the Astrals. Their presence always felt so far off, so removed from the suffering of mankind at the times when they needed divine intervention the most. Yet in that moment, bathed in a warmth so very unlike what they had just experienced, he could sense their company. He could feel their gazes on not only this place, but on the whole of Eos—watching, waiting, praying for the future. This was their gift, this conduit to the light of Providence spoken of in the ancient texts, and Ignis could do nothing more than stare at it in total awe.

Because this was what they were here to destroy. This was potentially the difference between all their hopes, their aspirations…

And living in a world without Noct.

_The gods will forgive us._

“What must we do?” inquired Ignis, tearing his eyes away from the Crystal to survey Lady Lunafreya with all the resolve he could muster. Her own face was set with equal determination, and if she felt at all reluctant to sacrifice her birthright now that they were here, she offered no indication.

Instead, she stood tall when she walked past him, trident in hand, and answered, “Keep your distance.”

“We’re not gonna mess up the magic or anything, are we?” wondered Prompto. From anyone else, it would have sounded sarcastic, but his question was clearly genuine. In fact, it made the Oracle smile briefly before she shook her head.

“No, but it is as Ignis said: we are all embarking on a road that has never been tread. I do not wish to see you harmed.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but Ignis thought he could hear the same concern belying her words that had been festering in his own mind for three days. They might escape uninjured, especially now that they had ensured there were no traps waiting for them, but Lady Lunafreya would doubtless be less fortunate. Ignis could not be certain of what the blessings of the gods entailed; no one could, even the mages themselves at times. He found it rather unlikely, however, that the connection between the Oracle and the Six would be severed without some reprisals.

And he was correct, albeit not in the manner which he was anticipating.

The moment Lady Lunafreya moved to position herself in front of the holy artifact, the sound of metal slicing through the air broke their silence, and a dagger impaled the ground at her feet. Although she stopped in her tracks, she did not react with the same urgency that they did. Gladio wrenched his greatsword out of the harness at his back and Ignis heard the telltale click of a firearm long before the Oracle spoke the word they were all thinking as they whirled to face the entrance.

“Ravus.”

Her brother stood at the mouth of the tunnel, his white coat sharply delineating him from the darkness beyond. It bore no comparison to the incandescence of his visible rage, and with a hand on his sheathed sword and his eyes fixed on his sister, he addressed her harshly, “You should not have come here, Lunafreya.”

Gritting his teeth, Ignis tightened his grip on the daggers in his hands and stepped closer to Gladio and Prompto in an attempt to shield the Oracle from whatever Ravus might do next. So _this_ was Ardyn’s plan for them all along: he did not deem them worthy of his own presence, so he had sent his pitiful henchman in his stead. Ignis should have predicted this. After all, they had known Tenebrae’s king was not at home; it had seemed too simple a matter for Lady Lunafreya to leave unfollowed. Now that they were here, staring down the man who had never been able to forgive that which he felt he was owed, Ignis realized that he’d been wrong. If the Oracle wasn’t shadowed, then they _were_.

Yet Ravus was but one man against three, not to mention the power of the Six consecrated within his sister. They would not fail now—Ignis would not allow him to stop them.

Lady Lunafreya, it seemed, was of a similar mind. It was a true sign of where the power in Tenebrae lay that the Oracle did not falter for an instant in the face of Ravus’s—her _king’s_ —ire. Rather, she shook her head and retorted, “No man can stand in the way of the calling I must fulfill.”

“Your _calling_?” he scoffed. With a condescending wave of his hand, he acknowledged their presence for the first time and continued, “Your calling is to assist the one who killed our mother?”

“Not this again,” muttered Gladio under his breath, ignoring the murderous glare Ravus leveled in his direction even as Ignis quieted him with a glance.

Although her own response was not quite as overtly disrespectful, there was no tolerance in her tone when Lady Lunafreya insisted, “King Regis did not kill Mother. That fault lies with Ardyn alone.”

“Who was it that invited his scorn?”

“The hands of fate are not the king’s responsibility to control,” she sighed heavily, sounding as though this was a battle she had fought many times in the past, “nor did he escape the Accursed’s rage unscathed.”

Sneering, Ravus contradicted her, “That coward of a king should be grateful that the prince of Lucis still lives without forcing you to sacrifice all that you are for the sake of your _calling_.”

“No one has forced me here. I came of my own accord, with help and encouragement from no king,” Lady Lunafreya assured him. Her words did nothing to sway Ravus’s opinion. If anything, they only appeared to enrage him further.

“By your own accord, you are throwing your life away!”

“That may be!” Finally turning from the Crystal to face him fully, the Oracle’s gaze was awash with blue flame when she asserted, “But it’s my choice.”

For a fleeting instant, it seemed as though the three of them ceased to exist, mere shadows on the walls of an old argument that none of them had been privy to before. As much as Ignis wished to subdue Ravus, to show him even a fraction of the grief that they felt in return for his inhumane postulation that his was the only suffering that mattered, he did not move. This was not his war to fight. The Oracle’s point had been made clear: no man had given her permission to come here, and none would.

Ravus must have realized it as well, for he did not attempt to revive the course he had been pursuing. In fact, he said nothing whatsoever.

_Prompto_ did.

“Uh… Question?”

His voice cut through the tangible tension that had settled around them as if the gods themselves were waiting to see how this tale ended, and all eyes turned to him where he was standing with his free hand raised as though he were sitting in the middle of a school and not a potential battleground. The sight of it had Ignis endeavoring not to roll his eyes; it appeared that Gladio had already failed to match his determination.

Ignoring the way their gazes bored into him with varying degrees of hostility and exasperation, Prompto cleared his throat and awkwardly asked, “Shouldn’t you be cool with us destroying the Crystal?”

Ravus’s expression was vastly unimpressed when he lifted an eyebrow and conspicuously offered no answer. Whether it was his imperial training kicking in or simply Prompto’s utter lack of shame rearing its head, he pressed on without hesitation.

“I mean, if this works, then we can take Ardyn down.” He shrugged, cleverly sidestepping the negotiable truth in that statement to conclude, “Everybody gets what they want, right?”

“Don’t be asinine,” rejoined Ravus with a hostile sneer. “The mage’s death is not my wish.”

“Then what is?” demanded Gladio impatiently.

“His life in my hands. From here are the blessings of the gods bestowed, the blessings that he has used to wrest away our sacred lands. He who controls the Crystal controls the mages and claims the power that can bring them to their knees.”

Frowning, Gladio deadpanned, “And you want to be that person.”

Lady Lunafreya did not give Ravus the opportunity to answer in the affirmative, her tone unspeakably sad when she informed him, “To possess the Crystal will not grant you the dominion you seek. The Accursed’s darkness has already severed whatever loyalty he once owed to the Six. He would not heed you any more than he does them.”

“If he wishes to reclaim it and prolong his existence in this world, then he must,” countered Ravus, his hand wandering back to his sword.

“Dude, he’d just kill you for it,” observed Prompto as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. In many ways, it was.

But not to Ravus. Never to Ravus.

“The empire stole our home. The Lucians stole our mother. I will not allow you to claim my sister’s birthright for the sake of some trifling prince!” he spat.

In a flash of steel, his weapon was unsheathed, and he was hurtling towards them with a furious cry. Shoving Prompto away, Gladio swung his sword upwards to meet him first. Metal clashed against metal, and the king of Tenebrae fell back a step under the Shield’s weight.

It appeared that Gladio was not the only skilled fighter in the room, however: Ravus used his forced retreat to his advantage, slipping out from underneath the arc of Gladio’s blow to throw him off balance. With his foe no longer taking the brunt of his bulk, Gladio tripped forward, using his greatsword as leverage as he drove it into the ground to steady himself. His adversary was already turning, bringing his own weapon around—Ignis was readying a dagger to throw straight for his heart—

When a shot rang out, clanging off Ravus’s blade and forcing it aside at the last second.

Cocking the firearm he’d pilfered from an imperial guard in Gralea, Prompto didn’t take his eyes off Ravus for a moment as the latter recovered. “Hey, Iggy—what’s the plan?”

Ignis didn’t answer at first, watching Gladio wheel around and use his fist instead of his sword. This time, it found its mark, and Ravus was sent stumbling backwards with the force of the blow. He did not let that stop him, though; he did not even let it slow him down. His jaw was set in determination as he ducked beneath Gladio’s next attack, only rather than preparing a counter-strike, he dodged to the side and made a desperate lunge for where his sister was still standing before the Crystal.

And his eyes were on the trident—their key to solving this whole mess.

“Crush the opposition,” called Ignis, rotating a dagger in his grasp and sending it soaring towards Ravus. “ _That’s_ the plan!”

“Got it!”

A burst of gunfire rent the air as soon as he had confirmation, and Ignis didn’t spare a thought for whether his shots landed or if they would be executed for killing the king of Tenebrae. Right now, there were more important matters than international diplomacy. Perhaps his own monarch would not agree with him, but when his son was awake, they could have that discussion.

As it turned out, either Prompto was an exceptionally terrible marksman or Ravus was more fortunate than Ignis had ever thought possible. Whichever it was, he appeared unharmed when he dove behind the Crystal so that the bullets would ricochet off the invulnerable artifact instead. With a significant nod to Gladio, Ignis darted forward to follow him while the latter swung around the other side, seeking to trap him between their combined attacks.

It was in that moment that Ignis noticed something he hadn’t before: the Crystal was not part of a larger pillar situated in the center of the cavern. No, it was _floating_ there of its own accord.

And there was plenty of space underneath for Ravus to flank Lady Lunafreya while simultaneously avoiding their mutual charges.

Fortunately, she was no mere princess. The Oracle was prepared for his arrival, the trident raised before her with its prongs aimed directly at his face.

“Stop this, Ravus,” she warned him, her tone as steady as her hands.

“Only when _you_ cease this madness,” he shot back, reaching for her weapon.

Lady Lunafreya was faster. Before his hand made contact, before Ignis or Gladio could round the Crystal to stop him, before Prompto could find an angle that wouldn’t accidentally harm the Oracle—before anyone could act, she drew the trident back and slammed its pommel into the floor.

It was as though an earthquake sundered the ground beneath them, the dark atmosphere suddenly exploding into brilliant, blinding golden light. Ignis narrowly avoided falling to his knees when Gladio’s hand closed around his arm, using his own sword to keep them both upright. Ravus, it seemed, did not fare so well: the force of the blast had launched him across the chamber, and he was struggling to stand while simultaneously diving for his sword under Prompto’s heavy hail of gunfire.

For now, that was not Ignis’s concern. Where the floor of the cavern had once been pristine, a crater the size of the Crystal itself delved into the ground at the Oracle’s feet; at its center, she appeared unharmed if somewhat shaken.

Following his gaze, Gladio gave Ignis a shove in her direction and ordered, “We got him. You worry about takin’ out that Crystal.”

“Indeed,” agreed Ignis. They were wasting time and effort on Ravus that would be better served elsewhere.

So, pausing to ensure that he would not be the unfortunate victim of Prompto’s increasingly haphazard attacks, Ignis ducked out from behind the Crystal and sprinted towards the Oracle as Gladio engaged Ravus across the room.

“Are you hurt?” he asked immediately, one eye on the skirmish while the other scanned her for wounds.

Lady Lunafreya brushed off his concern, her gaze following her brother’s progress as he met Gladio blow for blow. “This wasn’t meant to happen.”

“You couldn’t have known that he would follow you.”

“No, but I should have seen his thirst for the Crystal. The promise of its power has spread as the worst sort of disease: greed and grief abound unchecked, turning all to darkness.”

With that, she looked away from her brother’s struggles and set her sights on the alleged gift of the gods. Now, however, Ignis could see why she glared at it with unveiled disdain. Encased in the ringing of metal and the cries of enmity, there was no beauty to be found in its depths; the light that shone from within seemed more sinister, a cold illumination of their suffering rather than the warm reminder of the Six’s blessings upon Eos. Perhaps there was a good reason why the mages had never opened the path to the Crystal before or even confirmed its existence: the threat it posed, to both good and evil, was apparently too much for mankind to bear.

Which was why Ignis agreed wholeheartedly when Lady Lunafreya ordered, “Keep my brother from reaching the Crystal. I will do the rest on my own.”

“With pleasure,” he replied as she knelt before the artifact, the trident held in front of her like a pillar of strength in the midst of this festival of all too human weakness.

Ravus’s shout of wrath was immediate, and Ignis retrieved his second dagger from where it had landed on the floor beside the Crystal earlier in preparation for an assault that never came. Gladio was the quicker of the two; it appeared that he was growing tired of this nonsense if his dirty tactics were any indication. Swords and fists were of no use here: he grabbed the hem of Ravus’s coat and physically dragged him back from where he attempted to charge in Lady Lunafreya’s direction. The so-called king snarled, swinging his sword blindly over his shoulder in his desperation to reach the Oracle before she could put an end to his plans for revenge. Another shot rang out over his cries of fury, but Ignis was beginning to realize that whatever talent Prompto might have had, it was well defended against.

“Jeez,” he groaned as the bullet did little more than knock Ravus’s arm aside with a metallic _clang_ that spoke of armor beneath his sleeve. “What’s this guy made of?!”

“Bitterness and mommy issues,” grunted Gladio through gritted teeth.

“Oh. Yup, that’ll do it.”

“Less talkin’, more fighting.”

“Roger!”

A mighty heave was all the warning Ravus had before Gladio threw his weight in the opposite direction, both of them toppling to the ground in a heap. Across the room, Prompto glanced helplessly in Ignis’s direction, but there was no advice he could offer as Gladio struggled to subdue Ravus using the mightiest weapons he possessed—the weight of his muscles and the persistence of his resolve. There was simply no way for them to help without potentially harming the wrong combatant, so they could merely watch as the two wrestled against one another for dominance.

His mistake was assuming that Ravus was the only competitor.

Ignis didn’t see another guest enter through the archway, nor did he notice the flash of sudden movement in his periphery until a lance was driving into the ground, effectively pinning Gladio by the fabric of his own jacket. It wasn’t much, but it was enough of an advantage for Ravus to gain the upper hand. Digging a knee into Gladio’s gut, he rolled to his feet just in time for their assailant from Gralea to appear behind Prompto. In a fraction of a second, his gun had joined Gladio’s greatsword across the chamber and he was flat on his back, one of the woman’s heeled boots pressing against his ribs and her hands on her hips.  

“Well, that was easy,” she lilted casually, tilting her head to the side when Prompto grunted in annoyance.

“Ugh, not you again.”

“Sorry, junior. Guess you should’ve finished me when you had the chance.”

“Your timing is impeccable, Aranea,” huffed Ravus breathlessly as he snatched his sword from the ground. “Detain them while I see to the Oracle.”

Ignis narrowed his eyes and lowered his stance, refusing to abandon his post at Lady Lunafreya’s side. Assisting Gladio and Prompto was futile; he had recognized that from the moment their new arrival—Aranea, as it were—joined the fray. It was two against three, yes, but their opponents had come _prepared_ for a fight. In their current condition, Ignis regretted to say that they were not exactly at their peak performance.

But he would not leave the Oracle to her brother’s mercy, not even as Ravus stalked towards him with murderous intent. He would not abandon Lady Lunafreya, whose whispered prayers behind him were all the salvation any of them could hope for now. If it meant that he fought on his own, then so be it: he had always suspected that he would die in service to Noct.

It was, to be fair, no more or less than he deserved.

Rallying all his strength, Ignis raised his daggers in front of his face to block as Ravus’s sword sliced through the air towards him—

And never made contact.

Instead, there was a hiss of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground before he registered that the king of Tenebrae had crumpled at his feet, limp and unimposing. The same boot that had felled Prompto kicked his weapon aside; it took a moment for him to follow it to its owner’s smug face, which was free of its helmet for the first time as they stared at each other.

“What. The. Hell.”

_Quite._

Honestly, that was undoubtedly the most accurate statement Ignis thought anyone could have used to describe the all-encompassing sense of shock he felt. In fact, he thought that he might even be _more_ taken aback than Prompto, although the latter’s slack jaw certainly spoke volumes of his incomprehension. This simply didn’t compute: Aranea, whoever she was, had tried to kill them on their way out of Zegnautus. She had come all this way, presumably to finish what she had started on Ardyn’s orders.

Why, then, was she smirking at them like the cat that had gotten the proverbial cream?

He didn’t trust it, not even remotely, and it appeared that he was not alone.

“Thought you were workin’ for the _other_ side,” observed Gladio suspiciously, finally managing to free himself. The hole in his jacket, however, did not seem to ingratiate their rather confusing guest to him regardless of her assistance.

Not that she minded in the slightest as she retorted, “That psychopath is on the fast track to destroying the world. The way I see it, there _are_ no sides anymore.”

“But…didn’t he send you to kill us?” asked Prompto, frowning when she chuckled.

“Not in so many words, but I guess he can consider this my resignation.”

Now it was Ignis’s turn to demand, “Why? You certainly didn’t seem averse to helping him before.”

Aranea rolled her eyes, but he noticed a subtle shift in her demeanor that answered quite a few of his questions on its own. Despite her sarcasm, despite her rather infuriating fixation on taunting them whenever she had the chance, there was a vulnerability in her gaze that was striking. This was not a soldier carrying out orders blindly because she was told to; this was not a bloodthirsty adversary who cared not a whit for who she hurt.

It was someone who had chosen to do the right thing _because_ it was the right thing, regardless of the consequences or how much she despised it. Ignis didn’t need her to say so—he could read it in her features. After all, had any of them looked so different when they decided to come here in the first place? Had Prompto when he forced his way into their formerly two-man retinue?

Something of his own thoughts must have shown on his face, because he was the one Aranea turned to when she finally answered, “Look, believe me or don’t, but Ardyn’s up to a lot more than just nixing your precious prince. His stupid plans are going to get us all killed if someone doesn’t do anything about it. The sooner he’s out of commission, the better.”

“And what do you get out of it?” Gladio asked, his gaze still cautious even though he’d abandoned a bit of his skepticism.

“How about living to see another day?” she replied sarcastically, not giving him the chance to respond before she pressed on. “Wouldn’t say no to a job, though. Looks like I’ll be needing one.”

“Seriously?”

“No, blondie. Not seriously.”

“Oh. Right.”

Their incessant back and forth as Gladio attempted to acquire more information and Prompto fell into each of Aranea’s sarcastic pitfalls was lost on Ignis, his mind fixed instead on the contents of her explanation. Or, to be more precise, a _portion_ of her explanation. The idea that Ardyn’s vague yet palpable aspirations were far greater than conquering Lucis was no surprise and therefore easily written off. With the power he held and the extent of his ambitions, there was no telling what he could accomplish, especially when he had shown no shortage of disregard for human life thus far.

It was the one life she mentioned, however, that concerned him the most. Because in that second, as the air stilled and the light within the Crystal was extinguished, as the Oracle collapsed to the ground behind him and the gift of the gods shattered into a million microscopic shards, Ignis belatedly realized why it was that Ardyn had sent them here. Why it was that he had drawn them so far from home. Why it was that he had left no protection for the stone and dispatched someone he knew owed him no allegiance.

Without the Crystal, there were no mages.

Without the Crystal, there was no magical wall.

Without the Crystal, there was nothing standing between Ardyn and Noct.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I managed to finish this on time--even a little ahead of schedule! :D This week coming up will be a bit busier, however, so I'm going to try to do the same and keep us on schedule as much as I can.
> 
> Happy New Year, and I'll see you guys in 2018! :)


	29. Traitors' Pyre

“Cor, would you be so kind as to send for more blankets?”

There was a slight pause in which Regis imagined the marshal was endeavoring not to sigh before he replied, “With all due respect, if the six he has aren’t keeping him warm, I doubt another will make much difference.”

That was unfortunately quite likely, yet his statement was punctuated by his footsteps as he strode to the door nevertheless. It brought a smile to Regis’s lips to hear him call for the guards to have more bedding brought up, if a small one. This was but one of many occasions when he wondered what he had done to deserve such loyal retainers, even in his least rational moments.

His deserts, after all, tended to err in the opposite direction. Regis had had ample time to dwell on that as he sat helplessly by Noctis’s bedside, watching his condition deteriorate with no recourse. Through all the years that he had spent alone, observing his son from afar and grieving the loss of the relationship they could have had if there were any justice in this world, Regis had thought himself exceptionally clever. In spite of his experiences, successes and failures alike, he had been convinced that he finally claimed the advantage over Ardyn. So long as Noctis was still breathing, still _awake_ , he had won. There had been setbacks, of course; there were days when Regis had nearly lost his way in his desperation and loneliness. Yet when the dawn rose on Noctis’s twentieth birthday, it had been his blessing to wake with a smile on his face and look forward to meeting the person his child had become.

How foolish of him. How many setbacks did he have to suffer, how many lives had to be lost before he comprehended that there was no outmatching Ardyn Izunia?

Too many examples were apparently never enough for Regis. His hubris would be the death of him and the downfall of his kingdom if he continued to let it hold sway. Or was it his emotions that rendered him so incapable of fathoming the tremendous and terrible power that was stacked against them?

The power _he_ had enraged. The power _he_ had woken through his own actions, for better or worse.

Taking a deep and tremulous breath, Regis shook those thoughts from his mind and extended a hand to smooth Noctis’s hair out of his face. Reflecting on what he could have done was useless: he and Clarus had already spoken at length of their options, and none of them were any more prudent than the one he had chosen when he was young and inexperienced and so very frightened. The alternatives were indeed worse than the path he had decided to tread. If he had allowed Ardyn dominion, his people would have died; thwarting the mage’s plans meant sacrificing his own son. There was no middle ground, no averting the moral crisis that he had faced. Even now, older and wiser than he was in the early years of his reign, he could not say with absolute surety what was the better course. As king, he was well aware of the answer, and he had walked that road to its end.

As a father, he was more a failure than words could describe. Not even Carbuncle, who had arrived earlier that day and taken up residence on Noctis’s other side, had been able to correct the inevitable consequence of his righteous cause. Yes, his son was still alive. His chest rose and fell evenly, _too_ evenly to be natural in sleep or waking.

But there was something wrong, some evil at work within him that was determined to gradually steal that which had been snatched away from it by the Dream Guardian’s quick thinking twenty years prior. It went far beyond the simple fact that they could not keep him warm— _at all_. Regardless of what they tried, there was no chasing away the chill that had settled into Noctis’s limbs, as though he were already dead even when his heart continued pumping blood through his veins. It made his joints stiff and his skin pale, his fair complexion nearly translucent despite the warm light of his bedroom. The intravenous solutions that the court physician had prescribed to stave off the effects of starvation appeared to have no impact; with each passing day, his hands looked a bit bonier and his cheeks thinned with unnatural rapidity. Dark, bruise-like circles rounded Noctis’s eyes, which did nothing to help when they seemed to have sunk deeper into his skull as it was. To gaze upon him was to gaze upon the portrait of death itself, gone yet so very much alive.

It was like a parasite was leaching the life out of him, hour by hour, day by day. No, Noctis was not dead; Carbuncle had spared him from that fate, however disconcerting the alternative. Still, Regis could not help but wonder if all the Dream Guardian had done was buy him time to say goodbye. Soon— _very_ soon with the swiftness at which Noctis was fading away before his eyes—there would be nothing left. The curse itself might not have killed him, but its effects very well could. After all, how would Noctis survive if his body could not receive the nutrients it desperately needed? How would he continue to breathe if his ribs were too heavy for his weakening lungs to lift? How would he not freeze if he could conserve no heat?

Those were questions that had been whirling around Regis’s mind for the last week with no answers forthcoming. Even Carbuncle, wise and knowledgeable though he was, could not provide them.

Regis smiled sadly as he surveyed the tiny creature that had done so much more than his stature suggested possible. His arrival had been quite unexpected, yet there was no denying the comfort that he carried with him, as he always had. That was not to say that he was singularly reassuring: the toy Regis had purchased for his son when he was a baby—the one that brought him close to tears every time he remembered that Noctis had kept it all this time—was still tucked beneath the blankets in silent support. To see it made it easier to imagine that nothing was wrong, that his son _was_ simply sleeping. The true Dream Guardian must have realized the nostalgia that gripped Regis at the sight, because he did not seek to supplant his stuffed counterpart. Instead, he had climbed onto Noctis’s pillow and cuddled up next to his head to wait.

It hadn’t bothered Regis that he did not speak. The atmosphere did not lend itself to noise, really.

That he _couldn’t_ speak did not occur to him until that afternoon, when the air seemed to prickle with energy like the clouds before a storm. It did not cross his mind until he’d glanced out the window to see the magical wall protecting Insomnia and his son from Ardyn’s wrath collapsing, breaking apart like shards of glass that disintegrated as they fell towards the ground. It did not seem possible until Clarus’s phone had rung and Ignis’s name appeared on the screen.

“Is it done?” he’d demanded the moment the call connected, his Shield having long since abandoned any hope of keeping the device to himself until they returned to the Citadel.

The answer was plain to see, yet Regis had been relieved nonetheless when Ignis replied, “It is.”

He’d known it would not be enough to wake his son, of course; the curse was not attached to the Crystal so much as the mage that wielded its might. Its _erstwhile_ might. Even so, he had glanced to Noctis as though he would open his eyes and join him in celebration of the grand step they had taken towards Ardyn’s demise. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t, although his bedfellow’s ears had perked up like he could hear every word Ignis spoke. Perhaps he could—they were indeed long enough that Regis would have thought they should offer some sort of benefit to his senses.

His silent joke and inner satisfaction had dissolved when Ignis continued, “I suspect this may be a trap.”

At first, Regis hadn’t understood what he meant. The task was completed; the Crystal was destroyed and, from the sounds of it, they had escaped in one piece. There was the simple matter of dealing with his son’s _friend_ when they returned to the Citadel, along with the more daunting mission of locating Ardyn so that they could deliver his end as swiftly and surely as possible. Beyond that, Regis hadn’t initially been able to comprehend what Ignis could be referring to. Then again, maybe he hadn’t wanted to admit it. Maybe he had merely wished to believe that things were well on their way to being settled and that dawn was indeed on the horizon.

The most enticing delusions could not last forever, though, and his son’s advisor had not been quick enough to explain himself before realization had struck him. The only excuse he could offer for not recognizing it sooner was his own grief, and even that was not sufficient for one of his station.

Outside, there was no wall of divine protection standing between them and the darkness lurking where they could not see it.

Inside, the familiar reddish glow of Carbuncle’s horn was conspicuously absent, and his gaze was a great deal more solemn than Regis had ever seen in the past. Not even on the day of the christening had he affected such a somber, anguished appearance.

On his son’s finger, the Ring of the Lucii no longer glimmered with the magic that had been imbued within by the Messenger’s will.

And it was in that instant that Regis had fully comprehended the gravity of what he had known would happen without care for the consequences if it meant releasing his child from the bonds of imprisonment that kept him locked away. It was in that instant that he had registered yet another grievous loss in the seemingly endless war between himself and the fourth mage.

“Ardyn _will_ come for Noct,” Ignis had said, his explanation suddenly unnecessary as Regis reclaimed his seat beside his son and reached out a hand to stroke Carbuncle’s fur in wordless apology.

Another loss. Another sacrifice.

This one, he’d resolved, would not be in vain.

So, with a heavy heart that belied his determination, Regis had gathered what strength he could to reply, “Let him come. He will find us ready.”

“Majesty… We are unable to confirm what effect the destruction of the Crystal has had on him, if any. Even if his immortality has indeed been stripped from him, he still poses a considerable threat.”

“That is a risk we must take,” Regis had observed. “As it stands, there are few other options.”

In fact, there were _no_ other options. Regardless of his own feigned confidence, regardless of Ignis’s assurances that they would return to Insomnia with all haste, regardless of the precautions he’d immediately set about taking as soon as the call disconnected—they had no choice. The deed was done; the Crystal was gone. Gentiana would never again step out of the shadows to aid them in their time of need with a spell or a word of comfort, just as Carbuncle had to wait like the rest of them for Noctis to rise again. According to Ignis, the Oracle hadn’t fared much better: she was apparently recovering well from the strain of her task and its aftermath, but all that had kept her strong in the face of her fate had fled. She was but a young woman—a brave, kind, selfless woman who had done the seemingly impossible in order to save the world, yet an all too mortal woman nevertheless.

It was that more than anything else that gave Regis the courage to carry on. If Lady Lunafreya, so young and now powerless, could stand before the greatest shadow the world had ever encountered and refuse to allow it passage, then there was no reason why he should not. In the event that he perished, at least his son would have a father who died ensuring the safety of his family and his people to the best of his ability.

So, he hadn’t wasted a moment. Clarus and Cor had been waiting outside Noctis’s room for the duration of his conversation, not bothering to simulate ignorance to what they had undoubtedly overheard. Neither was pleased with the idea of shifting their defenses, not when they had struck the perfect balance already, but there was no other alternative available to them.

For the last week, every member of the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive had been on duty around the clock, scouring the Citadel for any sign of intruders. The days were long and the nights even more so, and Regis had endeavored to make their jobs that much easier by suspending civilian access to the palace indefinitely. Maintaining his own vigil at Noctis’s side made it unnecessary for unauthorized individuals to seek an audience with him, so there was hardly any need to keep the doors open for them to loiter about until he deigned to greet them. That was not to say that he did not value his people or their time and attention, not in the slightest. Yet that small, selfish part of him that spoke with a father’s voice rather than that of a monarch had insisted that there were appropriate situations in which to make himself unavailable. His own father had stepped away from the public on occasion, needing to meditate on substantial requests or simply remove himself from the stress of the position for a few fleeting hours. This was a great deal longer than that, yes, but Regis refused to be parted from his son when there was still hope of reversing this terrible curse. His council and his people would have to forgive him his failings for now. Therefore, in conjunction with his wishes, the Citadel had been singularly populated by his most trusted attendants and loyal guards. Anyone else would wait until the crisis—the crisis heretofore unknown to them—had abated.

The obliteration of the Crystal meant changing their tactics, however reluctant his retainers had been to comply with his wishes. With danger potentially looming closer, Regis had ordered Cor and Drautos to pull back even further. Since that afternoon, guards and Glaives alike had taken to patrolling the corridors outside Noctis’s chambers and the perimeter of the Citadel’s gates alone. Those were the most vulnerable locations, the ones that would need defending should Ardyn enter as they anticipated, so they had taken precedence in their strategic orchestrations. Only the inside of Noctis’s apartment was free of their increased presence, as Regis had allowed none but his Shield, his marshal, and the Glaive that had ever stood at Noctis’s side to join him in his grief. Others came and went as they were needed, which was seldom, but remained steadfastly rooted to their positions in protection of their prince.

The rest of the palace was left unattended: Regis had little care whether Ardyn sat on his throne or dined at his table so long as his hands came not within reach of his son’s throat. In fact, he almost welcomed the mage to do so. Let him come now that he was not bolstered by the power of the gods. Let him come now that he had no empire at his disposal.

Let him come so that Regis might meet him, steel for steel, and take back what belonged to him. What belonged to Noctis.

Yet he did not. Hours crept by, the sun lowered beyond the edge of the wall and brought darkness to the world, but Ardyn did not appear.

In a sense, the waiting was more maddening than the threat, and Regis took to staring out the window in distant dread as the clock ticked ever onward. Although they could not predict the time or manner of his coming, they did not even attempt to delude themselves into believing that he would not with each moment he remained ominously absent. Too many years had passed between the commencement of his plans and the hour of his perceived victory for him to abandon his vengeance now. After all, it was he who had sent Noctis’s retainers dashing for the Crystal; it was he who had provided the perfect opportunity to snatch the origins of his powers away so that he might never use them again. Indeed, Regis knew as well as Ignis that his motives were not so clear, that there were facets of his plot that they were not privy to. Still, he had maneuvered them into this position. He had strung them all up and made them dance like marionettes. He would come to cut their strings—it was merely a matter of when.

In the meantime, there was nothing to do besides that which he had been for the last week. He straightened Noctis’s blankets. He hopelessly attempted to rub some warmth back into his son’s frigid hands. He brushed those long dark locks of hair away from his forehead over and over again until he thought for certain that he would never be able to stop.

He stood watch. He hoped. He _prayed_ to whatever deity might be listening for the first time in years.

If they heard him, they did not answer. Regis supposed that was only to be expected when he was responsible for the razing of their gift to mankind and the guardians that they had bestowed upon Eos. With no Messenger to communicate their will, there was certainly no point in enforcing it.

Which was why Regis closed his eyes and sighed when the lights went out just before midnight. If ever there was a sign, be it from the Six themselves or merely the abomination they had set loose, that had to be it.

And what a sign it was.

“Regis,” Clarus called him from the window, his tone as severe as his expression.

Steeling himself, Regis gave Noctis’s hand a comforting and useless squeeze before relinquishing his hold and moving to join him. The sight that greeted them was beyond comprehension even as they watched it unfold.

It was not merely the Citadel that had lost power, much as Regis wished it were so simple as that. No, block by block, the rest of Insomnia was blinking out until there were no lights on the horizon. Not even vehicles were immune, the streets running into the distance like snaking black rivers that slithered to the depths of the underworld. With the sun having set hours ago and the moon obscured by heavy clouds, he would have thought that they existed in a void—if they existed at all. If not for the steady presence of his Shield at his side and the sturdy sill he leaned on, it would not have seemed like such an impossibility for them to have drifted into a shadowy abyss, a darkness that could only be _his_.

And if that were the case…

“Ulric, send word to Drautos,” Regis ordered as firmly as he could manage in light of what he must do. “Have him muster the Glaive and make for the main gates immediately.”

Regis sensed more than saw him hesitate where he had been hovering just outside the door, unable to berate him for it when he understood precisely how he felt. It was, after all, no different than the hesitation that attempted to stay his own tongue. Yet Ulric was a Glaive first and foremost, and he had done less appealing things in the course of his duty than this. Thus, it was Cor who spoke for him so that he would not have to voice complaints he doubtless had no right to.

“You think it wise to remove guards from the prince’s side?” he inquired cautiously, no doubt recognizing the difficulty Regis already faced in doing so.

Their understanding made little difference to him, his expression hardening at their tentative defiance. “I believe we have no other choice. See it done.”

A heavy set of footsteps and the beep of Ulric’s earpiece were all the confirmation he had that his orders would be followed, and the tense set of his shoulders eased somewhat in spite of his discomfort. Clarus must have recognized his momentary lapse of confidence, because he immediately laid a firm hand on his shoulder to draw him from the confines of his own traitorous thoughts.

“They protect the prince in their absence,” his Shield assured him. How he could remain so certain was nearly beyond Regis’s comprehension until he remembered: it was not _his_ child he stood to lose if this was the wrong decision.

Regardless, it was one that had to be made. Long had the walls on the border of Insomnia protected the Crown City from the daemons that prowled outside. Their presence had diminished in recent years, but they were by no means gone from the world the way so many of them desired. On various occasions, he had received reports of the odd goblin scratching at the far side of the gate, easily dispensed with on sight and just as quickly forgotten. Nothing larger had plagued them in years, nor had any creatures of darkness yet managed to gain entry to the city.

But the lights were out now. Insomnia was shrouded in shadows the likes of which he assumed only the ancient kings had seen, for the invention of electricity was not a new one. Never had they been plunged into darkness this deep, this endless; never had they been without the beacons that ensured their security by sending their enemies running. Not until tonight.

His people were not prepared for this trial, not like his guards and Glaives. They had known peace for so long that he did not believe they could fathom the trials of war his father had encountered, and _his_ father before him. As such, he had little hope that they would be able to defend themselves should the need arise. The walls _had_ to hold, and with the sheer scale of this apparent calling card… Well, Regis doubted they were quite as impregnable as he had always assumed.

So, he nodded tersely in wordless acknowledgement of his Shield’s reassurances. He thanked Ulric when he returned and confirmed that Drautos was mobilizing the Glaives at his behest. He spared a glance for his son and silently apologized for having to once again make the decision between his safety and that of their people. It seemed so long ago now that he had stood beside his wife’s bed and promised his baby boy that he would always be there, that he would always put his son’s needs before his own. And in that way, he had never broken his solemn vow: although his absence had been undesirable, it was in acceptance of Noctis’s needs that he had remained so. Often had Regis desperately required the solace of seeing his child, of knowing that he had not been entirely robbed of those who meant more to him than life itself; often had he spent hours inhabiting fantasies where he could leave Insomnia and visit with Noctis, see him grow firsthand rather than through the blessed pictures that he had saved and cherished all this time. It was not to be, though. So long as Noctis’s safety was at stake, so long as he was in danger by Regis’s mere presence, there was no way that he could bring himself to take that which he had constantly longed for. Perhaps Noctis hated him for it; perhaps he abhorred this odious king who had sent him away with such seeming ease. Perhaps, in spite of his hopes to the contrary, they would never be able to foster the sort of relationship that Regis had ideally anticipated. All that meant nothing if his son lived. If Noctis loathed him until the day he died, which would be quite far off if Regis had any say in it, he could at least be certain that he had done everything he could to put his child before himself.

But he could not come first. That was not a blessing afforded him as monarch.

The gates needed defending. His subjects needed protection. As king, it was his duty to provide for them even at the cost of his own life. Ever had he upheld his post, and although his heart ached to do the opposite, he would do so now.

And with not a moment to spare, it seemed. When Regis turned back to the window, his eyes were immediately drawn to the horizon when subtle movement against the dark clouds caught his attention. At first, he thought for certain that it was his imagination: shadows could be fearsome foes, bent on twisting one’s perception of the world until all things seemed grotesque and frightening. The massive birds of prey soaring straight towards Insomnia were inarguably both. That was how they appeared, at least: even from this distance, they seemed more like the animate skeletons of some incalculably enormous beast than anything else, their numerous red eyes eerily glowing in the gloom. It was as though they pierced Regis’s soul, driving whatever warmth had remained from his heart and replacing it with the same chill that had plagued his son for a week.

The sensation worsened when he realized that they were not alone. Even as he watched them soar at alarming speed over the walls, he heard the distant bangs and shouts that heralded the coming of their counterparts on the ground below.

This, then, was how their doom would be decided. How foolish of him to have believed that Ardyn might come without company and allow Regis the comfort of knowing that even if he perished, even if the unthinkable happened and he lost his son, his people would live on in peace. After all these years, he should never have given those hopes quarter in his mind. The fourth mage had been in his employ long enough to know his deepest fears, his most ensnaring doubts, and his darkest misgivings. If this was to be the grand finale of his dreadful opus, then he was bound to make it such an end as to be worthy of his own efforts. Never could it be said that Ardyn Izunia, chosen mage and perpetual thorn in Regis’s side, was not entirely devoted to his cause—his terrible, deadly cause.

A cause that Regis would fight tooth and nail if it meant his kingdom stood another day and his son’s chest rose and fell an hour longer.

Even if it meant leaving his side.

Because the daemons were not the only ones who had arrived to drag Lucis into the depths of Hell where all of the fourth mage’s enemies languished. They were not the only shadows that haunted the streets of the Crown City tonight.

The devil himself stood in the center of the Citadel’s courtyard, silhouetted by a circle of guards with his head raised as though he could see Regis watching him. All things considered, it was quite possible.

That should have inspired more fear in him than it did. It should have given him pause, not propelled him to his knees beside Noctis’s bed so that he could draw his sword from its sheathe beneath the mattress. Now that there was no danger in his son’s proximity to such weapons, Regis had not hesitated to keep his trusted steel at his side in the event that Gentiana’s protection failed and the hammer of fate fell upon them as it had long desired to—as it did _now_.

The time had come, and gripping the familiar leather hilt was like shaking hands with an old friend when he strode towards the door without a backwards glance. For once, both king and father were in agreement.

His Shield, however, was not.

“You intend to fight him on your own?” he huffed, following hard on Regis’s heels and plucking his greatsword from the sofa in Noctis’s sitting room as if it weighed nothing.

Regis did not turn to look at him as he reached for the door and retorted, “If I must.”

Just as he turned the knob, a hand shot out to slam it shut again. Clarus’s eyes were ablaze with righteous anger when Regis glared over at him, and his voice was filled with untold emotion as he insisted, “As your Shield, it is my duty to fight at your side.”

“It is your duty to protect that which is most important,” amended Regis. Perhaps it was a misinterpretation of the technical purpose to which a Shield was put, but he cared not. Instead, he pressed on, “Your place is here.”

“My place is standing between you and that monster.”

Calming himself with a breath, Regis pointedly attempted to pry the door open once more to no avail. Clarus’s grip remained firm and unwavering, as it always had been. In this instance, though, it grated more on Regis’s nerves than it comforted him.

With a hasty glance towards where Ulric and Cor were waiting in the entrance to Noctis’s bedroom, he ordered, “You are to remain here and guard my son.”

“Three pairs of hands are of less use here than they are against Ardyn,” observed the marshal evenly. “With all due respect, you’ll need all the help you can get.”

“I can fend for myself.”

“And if you can’t?” demanded his Shield. “If you fail and the prince does not wake? To whom, then, would the throne fall?”

To that, Regis could offer no answer. It would be optimistic to the point of foolishness if he insisted that it hadn’t crossed his mind as the days stretched on with no improvement. Even if he managed to safeguard his people, they would need a leader when all was said and done. If not him, then whom? Noctis was not yet ready to rule, and if he was unsuccessful in his attempt to subdue Ardyn, then that reality was moot. His son had to wake before he could take the throne; if he lingered on in this cursed existence, alive and dead at once, then the line of succession would be compromised. There would be no true king that could ascend in his stead so long as Noctis lived without abdicating, nor could the council claim regency when he would never regain consciousness. All of Lucis would be thrown into disarray, the control of the government collapsing until anarchy reigned instead.

Perhaps the king and father could not be so similarly motivated after all.

“Ulric,” Regis addressed his Glaive, pride surging through him when the latter straightened in immediate acceptance of whatever he would be asked. It was fortunate that he was so accommodating, for Regis did not know whether he could take any further argument when he commanded, “Take care of my son.”

“With my life, Your Majesty,” was Ulric’s automatic response, and he did not wait for them to leave before stepping back into Noctis’s room and closing the door behind him.

Never in his life had Regis found the click of a lock so encouraging.

It was the sound he took with him when he nodded to his retainers—his friends and brothers—and left Noctis’s apartment to meet what awaited below. It echoed in his mind alongside visions of his child’s tearful smiles and the sound of his voice as Regis stepped into the elevator and led them all into the fires of destiny.

 

***

 

“What’ve we got, Aranea?”

“You want the good news or the bad news?”

Gladio and Ignis shared a solemn glance, but it was Prompto who called into the car’s speakerphone from the backseat, “Uh, good news first?”

“Well,” Aranea’s voice mused from the other end of the line, tinny yet audible, “the place is still standing.”

“And the bad news?” sighed Ignis, his hands clenching tighter around the steering wheel. He was practically white-knuckling it, and that was _before_ Aranea responded.

“You boys have a hell of a crowd waiting for you. Daemons all over the place.”

 _Big surprise_ , thought Gladio glumly. It wasn’t like they hadn’t guessed as much themselves, but it was another thing to have it confirmed by someone with a bird’s-eye view.

He had to hand it to them: Niflheim had come up with a lot of shit over the years, but their airships were pretty damn impressive. That wasn’t to say that he would’ve felt the same way if they’d ever been put to the sort of use that he knew they were meant for; attacks from the air were a lot harder to deflect than ones on solid ground, after all. Still, when Aranea had pointed to her craft where she’d left it at Ravatogh’s summit, he hadn’t been able to avoid grudgingly complimenting it. What else was he going to do when she’d agreed to use her advantage to help them save Noct?

Of course, it would have been too simple if they’d all piled inside and made for Insomnia together. Nothing could ever be done the easy way.

Besides giving them a ride to the bottom of the mountain so that they didn’t have to hike that distance a second time—which was a blessing when Gladio had had to heft that worthless so-called _king_ on his own—they’d been out of luck. Much as he hated to admit it, he’d sided with Prompto when the latter groaned and moaned all the way to Duscae about how unfair it was that they’d risked the treacherous slopes while the former commodore of the imperial army had been able to land a hop, skip, and a jump away. It was only fitting that she could repay them with a lift to Insomnia, and she’d at least had the decency to offer. Ignis, however, pulled one of his typical maneuvers and told her they’d follow by land even if it was the slower option. His glare had kept them from arguing, but both of them understood the necessity enough not to bother—even if they hated every last second of it.

The part of him that had always been and forever would be a Shield had been itching to get back to the Crown City as quickly as possible. If they were right and Noct was in danger, then there was nowhere else he would rather be than at his side. That was without mentioning the magnetic pull of their brotherhood, which meant that the combination of his emotions and his duty had been driving him insane ever since Ignis had hurried them out of that cavern, the shattered remains of the defunct Crystal left behind as the only evidence that it had ever been there at all. If he’d had it his way, he’d have taken the fastest route and left that scumbag Ravus strung up at the top of the mountain for the crows to deal with. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken a few chances to reach Insomnia before sundown. But Ignis wasn’t an expert strategist for no reason: putting all their eggs in one basket, however impressive and sturdy that basket might be, _was_ a terrible idea. One lucky shot, and they were done for. There wouldn’t be any getting to the Citadel; there wouldn’t be any saving Noct. There would just be darkness and waiting for their friends and family to join them in it.

So, Gladio had tried to keep his grousing to a minimum as they stuffed themselves back into Ignis’s car and took off as though they’d been shot out of Prompto’s gun. They’d stopped once for gas along the way since there was no chance they’d make it across the country without filling the tank, but otherwise, it had been a nonstop dash for home. Ignis, for as much of a stickler as he’d always been about following rules, was breaking every speed limit imaginable to make it to the Citadel before their worst nightmares could come true—in fact, Gladio was pretty sure the speedometer had broken back near Cauthess and couldn’t actually keep up with them anymore. That would explain why it was stuck at a hundred fifty when they were _definitely_ going a hell of a lot faster than that.

But none of them had said a word about it as the hours ticked by and brought them closer to their goal. They’d simply grabbed hold of the handles inside their doors, held their breaths, and hoped that they didn’t run into anyone who wasn’t paying attention. They couldn’t afford any mishaps that might slow them down, particularly mishaps of their own making.

There was no avoiding the ones waiting for them when they crossed the borders of Insomnia and sped up the road towards the gates, Aranea’s report ringing in their ears as the walls of the Crown City towered ever larger in front of them.

“Do not engage them if you can manage to do otherwise,” Ignis ordered firmly. His eyes never left the road, not even when a telling—and monstrous—shadow floated overhead in the direction of the city.

“Wasn’t planning on it. You sure that fancy car of yours can handle all this?”

His lips twitched for the first time since they’d destroyed the Crystal, but it wasn’t a _happy_ kind of smirk. Actually, it was that brand of terrifying that only Ignis could achieve as he peered in the rear-view mirror and assured her, “It’ll take a bit more than a few daemons.”

“If you say so.”

That was it—no goodbyes or platitudes, just the steady beeping that told them she’d hung up before the call disconnected and the car fell silent inside. Her frankness was something Gladio could respect, even if the rest of her personality plucked on his last nerve until he was pretty sure he would rather have eaten his greatsword than accepted her offer of assistance. Not that he didn’t get the necessity: like Prompto had said on their way back from Gralea, they needed everybody they could drag together if they were going to pull this off. She was still a pain in the ass, though. _Not_ working with the empire anymore didn’t change that.

The _former_ empire, that was. According to her, it hadn’t existed for years, unbeknownst to its people. They were going to have a hell of a time breaking the news, but that was luckily a matter for another day and someone better equipped to handle the fallout than him. Right now, he had to keep telling himself that she had been right, that they were on the same side purely because they wanted to live. They could work out the rest later, just like all the other shit on their docket.

“Ardyn will not make it so simple to reach the Citadel,” warned Lady Lunafreya, leaning forward from the backseat to peer through the windshield at the ominous flying daemons.

“Funny,” Gladio grunted, “we’re not gonna make it so simple for him either.”

Before she could contradict him, Prompto piped up, “All we gotta do is clear a path, right?”

“Whatever’s left of one.”

“If we must, Aranea can provide a safer route,” interjected Ignis sharply, his pointed stare reprimand enough for Gladio’s pessimism. Lady Lunafreya wasn’t having any of it from either of them, apparently.

“We must take the fastest road possible,” she argued steadily, “if we are to intercept him before he reaches the prince.”

_Hold the phone._

Turning in his seat, Gladio leveled her with his most intimidating glower (according to Prompto, anyway) and countered, “ _We_ nothin’. _You’re_ staying in the car.”

The scathing yet silent response that earned him did nothing to chip away at his resolve, not this time. Lady Lunafreya wasn’t the Oracle anymore—she didn’t even have her trident now. They’d watched it disintegrate in a flash of light in the same instant that the Crystal had shattered; Gladio wasn’t about to fool himself into thinking that she could summon it again purely because she wanted to help. That meant she was just your average, run-of-the-mill princess, and an unarmed one at that. People like her were a liability, not an asset.

It wasn’t that he didn’t think she wanted to save Noct—she _did_. It was even better that she’d finally gotten off her ass and done something for a change to do it. But Gladio wasn’t willing to take any risks here. Aranea was a required one: she had the tools and the firepower to make shit happen, which had paid off well before they’d made it as far as the Crown City. Having eyes in the air was the best they could hope for, especially when they didn’t know what else they were about to drive into. Anything besides that was tempting fate when the deck was already stacked against them, and if there was one thing Gladio wasn’t about to entertain, it was the idea of pushing their limited luck even further. That was why they had rented out the caravan in the outpost near Ravatogh and tied Ravus up inside as soon as they’d had the chance. (The knots hadn’t been nearly tight enough for Gladio’s satisfaction, but Ignis had been adamant that they not make it impossible for him to get free and head home when he woke up and couldn’t make himself any more of a damn nuisance.) That was why they had made a few calls and hedged their bets on their way back to Insomnia.

And it was why Gladio was going to make sure that the former Oracle _stayed in the car_ until they saw this mess through. His priorities couldn’t be split, and if she was around, he would feel obligated to keep an eye on her that he didn’t have to spare. Maybe the Oracle had been able take care of herself without needing a Shield or a guard or whatever passed for security in Tenebrae, but this was completely different. It _had_ to be. They’d done the seemingly impossible; she needed to accept that there were going to be times when she was better off getting out of their way. It was just a matter of seeing to it that she didn’t do anything stupid in the meantime. After all, despite the fact that they hadn’t known her long, Gladio could already tell she had an unfortunate amount of _Noct_ in her. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; the two of them would probably get along like a house on fire. The problem was that they were trying to put out the flames right now, not make them bigger. Mages—even former ones—had a tendency of doing the exact opposite.

Fortunately, Lady Lunafreya didn’t have the opportunity to argue with him, although she obviously wanted to. While they’d been staring each other down in a wordless battle of the wills (one that he _would_ win), they’d apparently made it over the bridge and approached the gate. It wasn’t until Gladio felt the car decelerating that he tore his gaze away to frown into the darkness ahead of them. Aranea had already warned that the lights of the Crown City had gone out, but he hadn’t anticipated how bad it would be. It was an ominous sight, to put it mildly. Growing up at the Citadel meant that he and Ignis had been surrounded by fluorescent signs and glittering vistas for as long as they could remember; not once could he recall a time when the flood lamps at the top of the wall hadn’t been turned on after sunset. They were what kept the daemons at bay—them and the guards that monitored who entered and exited Insomnia at all hours without fail.

That much, at least, hadn’t changed. When Ignis rolled to a stop at the conspicuously _open_ border, it wasn’t to find the gate unmanned like they had almost expected on the irritatingly long drive. No, the king had definitely gone all out on this one: the gate watch was accompanied by the Kingsglaive tonight, which made absolutely no sense when Gladio could _hear_ the screams beyond the wall as soon as Ignis opened his window.

Why the hell weren’t they inside the city, protecting the people who couldn’t damn well do it for themselves? Why were they standing here with the doors wide open? Why did they care who came and went when the enemies had already waltzed right on in?

And why was Luche Lazarus staring at their car as though he’d just won the goddamn lottery?

Gladio never had liked that guy: he was obviously one who put ambitions before brotherhood, even to the point where his head was usually stuffed up Drautos’s ass. There weren’t many occasions when the Crownsguard worked in conjunction with the Glaive, especially occasions where Gladio was actually present instead of on special assignments within the Citadel, but he’d never been around Luche without feeling like he might just punch the guy in the face.

And apparently for good reason. Ignis couldn’t get a word out before that sleazy little shit commanded, “Step out of the car.”

_Ain’t happening._

Of course, Ignis was a lot better with words than Gladio, so his version was a little less hostile.

“The king is expecting us and requested our return as soon as possible,” he replied, a cool edge to his voice that he usually only used when one of the older retainers treated him like he had no clue what he was doing. They might have had time and experience on their side, but Ignis had clearly gotten all the brains.

Which was why Gladio shouldn’t have been at all surprised when Luche waved a hand towards his fellow Glaives, beckoning them forward as he repeated, “I _said_ , step out of the car. All of you. By order of _the king_ ,” he added with an ironic sneer that Gladio wanted to wipe off his smug face.

For a second, it looked like Ignis was seriously contemplating just ignoring him. His foot even tapped the gas, making the engine whir as though he might just say _screw it_ and run them all down if they didn’t get out of his way fast enough. That was definitely what Gladio would have done—from the looks of it, Prompto and Lady Lunafreya wouldn’t even have blamed him for it.

But Ignis was Ignis, so he reluctantly shut off the engine and did as he was told. Knowing him, he probably thought that was the easiest method of getting out of this and that if they just cooperated, things would go a lot smoother.

Gladio, on the other hand, doubted it. There was something wrong about the way Luche was eyeing them: his nose was tilted so far into the air that Aranea would have to watch out to keep from hitting it. Most Glaives didn’t get _that_ full of themselves, not even the ones who only cared about their next promotion like him. They served at the king’s pleasure, which was as easily revoked as it was granted. No one was safe, and if you didn’t watch your step, you’d find yourself a civilian or worse. More than one member of the Kingsglaive had gotten the boot over the years; the remaining soldiers valued their positions enough not to pretend they were big shit when they weren’t.

Well, everyone but Drautos. That guy was a special brand of asshole, talented captain or not.

It looked like Luche was doing his best to emulate him, too, because he affected the same casual disdain for anything that wasn’t himself as he glared down his nose at them when they didn’t follow Ignis’s lead. Unlike Noct’s chamberlain, however, Gladio wasn’t as willing to play ball with these idiots. They had places to be, and the longer they spent messing around down here, the more people stood to get hurt. That wasn’t acceptable regardless of the king’s alleged orders.

And call him crazy, but something told Gladio that King Regis would _never_ order the Kingsglaive to stop them when they were trying to get to Noct’s side.

“Did you suddenly go deaf?” demanded Luche sharply, his eyes narrowing when Gladio did nothing more than stare at him in unconcealed annoyance. If he thought he was going to get one over on the Shield to the future king, then he was shit out of luck.

“No, but I’m startin’ to wonder if _you_ did. Like Ignis said, we got places to be.”

“The only place you need to be is outside of the vehicle. Now.”

What Gladio really wanted to tell him was that if he got out of the car, Luche was going to be the one to regret it. After all, there were a few hundred pounds of steel separating his face from Gladio’s fist; if there weren’t, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from showing this guy who the hell he was talking to.

Ignis wasn’t about to let that happen, though. Every time Gladio thought they were on the same page, he proved himself to be the same killjoy he’d always been instead. Surprisingly, it had somehow seemed _less_ obnoxious when they were kids, which he never would have believed possible back then. Right now, with that pointed glare over his shoulder and the silent _Don’t Antagonize Them_ he was trying to convey, Gladio wished he would take a leaf out of Prompto’s book. Niff spy or not, at least he had guts of steel. And gall. A lot of gall.

Not that Ignis didn’t, but he tended to tread the careful path and expected them all to take the high road right along with him. Most days, Gladio would have appreciated that: it was good to have someone around who looked before they leapt and kept a cool head on their shoulders. It kept them from acting too rashly, like using Luche as a speed bump on their way to the Citadel.

In this case, however, Gladio had to admit that there wasn’t much choice involved in deciding whether they were going to follow Ignis’s lead. On Luche’s orders, the car was flanked with Glaives while the other guards kept watch ahead; swords were unsheathed and aimed in their direction as though _they_ were the threat rather than the daemons. All eyes were trained on them, waiting for them to make a wrong move.

And they had a goddamn liability in the backseat.

So, with a low growl of frustration, Gladio unceremoniously shoved open the door and slammed it behind him as he turned to face Drautos’s pathetic second in command. Prompto and Lady Lunafreya did the same, and he couldn’t deny that it took a load off his own shoulders to see the former slide across the seats so that he could stay as close to her as possible. If he was going to play bodyguard, then that was fine by Gladio. Maybe that would keep both of them out of trouble. He honestly didn’t get what it was that enamored Prompto so much about the former Oracle: she was pretty and all, but they also rivaled each other as the biggest pain in the neck he’d ever met at times. Whatever had him so enchanted, whether her looks or her personality or the fact that she was as annoying as he was, he wasn’t moving any further from her side than absolutely necessary. In fact, his expression was as focused as Gladio’s as they rounded the car, keeping himself between her and the points of the Glaives’ swords surrounding them. It was a pretty odd sight given the fact that Niffs hadn’t exactly been _gentle_ with Tenebrae in the past.

 _So_ now _he’s got a conscience. Well, better late than never._

There would be other times for sarcasm, though. The Glaives had followed in their footsteps, trapping them at the center of a circle ringed with steel while Luche sneered in triumph. Over what, Gladio wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

But the alternative was letting him get the first word, and there was no way _that_ was going to happen.

“The hell is this?” Gladio waved a hand towards the gate with every ounce of authority his father had taught him to exude. “Don’t you have better things to be doing than standing around here? People’re dying.”

Luche shook his head, unruffled by his accusations as he scoffed, “His Majesty deems is of the utmost importance to prune traitors from our midst. Seize their weapons.”

That last part was clearly meant for his comrades, who immediately popped the trunk to raid it for their arms. Any other time, it would have taken everything Gladio had not to turn around and throw them all out of the way to protect what was his, but not now. The consequences weren’t worth it, even if his instincts were screaming the opposite in an attempt to get him to move. It helped that there were just enough of them left playing babysitter to keep him from taking the kind of action Ignis would guilt him over later. Besides, he was still too caught up on Luche’s bullshit.

“Traitors?” he mused darkly. “You gotta be kidding me.”

“I can assure you, this is no joking matter,” snapped Luche. Maybe Gladio was imagining it, but it looked like he threw his chin even _higher_ in the air than before, if that were possible. “Or do you deny that you were the ones that brought down the magical barrier King Regis contracted to protect the prince?”

Frowning, Gladio simply stared at him like the moron he was without bothering to answer. It wasn’t his place to correct him, not when that must have been the excuse they were going with for Gentiana’s intervention. Gladio didn’t blame the king for not giving the Glaive the whole story either: it was none of their damn business, especially where people like Luche were concerned. Their duty was to keep Lucis safe; asking questions about things they didn’t need to know wasn’t on the agenda. The Messenger’s wall helped them as much as it did Noct, given that their job got a whole lot easier when there was a big magical bubble around the city doing all the work for them. That was as much as they really required, and Gladio wasn’t about to offer more than the king had even in his own defense.

Because damn, it stung that they couldn’t argue on this one. After all, they _had_ brought down the barrier, just not for the reasons Luche seemed to think.

Oh, and he wasn’t done.

_Figures._

“Do you deny that your actions lured the daemons into Insomnia or that you have been cavorting with the enemy to destabilize Lucis?” he continued with a flippant, disgusted gesture at Prompto that had Gladio irrationally bristling.

So was Prompto. The kid didn’t waste a second before he was indignantly exclaiming, “Who’re you calling the _enemy_?”

“Now is _not_ the time for this,” interjected Ignis, finally losing his temper in a way that only Ignis could. He didn’t shout—that wasn’t his style—but his razor-sharp glare and no-nonsense tone made it clear that he was ten shades of _done_ with this conversation. “The king has been fully briefed on Prompto’s _former_ position within the empire. Delivering justice is _his_ privilege, not yours.”

His logic was completely lost on Luche, who merely smirked and retorted, “Then you admit to sabotaging the Crown City’s defenses, which you should know better than anyone is treason.”

So was keeping the prince’s Shield from getting to his charge, but Gladio didn’t think that line of argument was going to take them very far. At this point, though, nothing would. Whoever was jabbing the flat end of their blade into his back was making that much pretty damn clear.

But they hadn’t come all this way just to get stopped at the gate. They hadn’t traveled the world in a week and defied the gods themselves just to trip right before they reached the finish line.

He was the Shield of the future king of Lucis—a king who _would_ be crowned if Gladio had to tear the rest of Eos down to see it done.

The Kingsglaive had _nothing_ on him.

Which was why he didn’t just stand there and wait for Luche to finish shouting, “Kill them!” By the time the words left his mouth, Gladio was already in motion.

Whirling around, he knocked the Glaive’s blade away right as they were about to stab it through his back—poetically enough. These were no mere guards, though; the Kingsglaive was Lucis’s most elite defensive force, and his opponent was quick to spin her sword in her hand to come around for another assault.

But he hadn’t gotten _his_ position for sitting on his ass either.

Gladio ducked to the side so that her attack struck the ground instead, putting some distance between the two of them before she had a chance to recover. The problem was that she wasn’t alone: for every Glaive that stood at the edge of the road, watching in mingled horror and indecision, there was another ready to blindly follow their orders. They weren’t considering the fact that this sort of justice wasn’t theirs to dispense; they weren’t considering the fact that if the king really did want them out of the way, then he would have done it himself. They weren’t considering anything beyond the simple notion that they were Glaives and the guy in charge had commanded them to kill alleged traitors. That was it. Nothing more to it.

That didn’t mean Gladio wasn’t ready and willing to crush a few of their skulls. Maybe it wasn’t anything personal—except to Luche, who had drawn his weapon and gone for Ignis as though he thought he might get made advisor to the prince by taking down the guy who already had the job—but reaching Noct _was._ Making it to the Citadel _was_. Kicking Ardyn’s ass straight to Hell where it belonged _was_. A few dead Glaives, while not exactly what Gladio wanted, was nothing compared to what they would lose if they wasted more time here.

It was with that thought in mind that he drew himself up to his full height and weighed his chances of getting to the car, where their weapons had been dropped haphazardly on the ground when they proved they weren’t about to go gently into that good night. At moments like this, when his pulse was beating in his ears and the familiar rush of adrenaline made the rest of the world go quiet, time seemed to slow. He could reach out and grab his adversary’s wrist as she swung her sword towards his head; he could bend it all the way back when she made to punch him, smirking in satisfaction when her bones snapped in his grasp. There was no scream of pain—she _was_ a Glaive—but he also didn’t give her much chance. In a split second that seemed more like an hour, he yanked her around by her broken arm and sent her careening into two others that had tried to get the drop on him while he was occupied. If they weren’t going to get picky about aiming below the belt, then they could expect him to respond in kind.  

And it looked like he was going to have to—they all were. This went beyond the kinds of scuffles they were used to in training. This was all out war.

No, it was worse than that: the Glaive hadn’t lined them all up outside the car for a fight, but for an _execution_. That could only mean one thing.

The problem was that Gladio couldn’t figure out how it was possible.

“Hey, big guy! Heads up!”

Apparently, he was going to have to save that for later, because Prompto’s shout cut through the haze that had blanketed Gladio’s senses while he stomped hard on one of the fallen Glaives’ knees. The sickening crunch it made was enough to assure him that the guy wasn’t getting back up anytime soon, and he glanced over his shoulder to see that their tagalong hadn’t done such a bad job.

Where Gladio had taken down three on his own, it appeared that Prompto had gotten _four_. Two of them were on the ground at his feet, completely out cold; the other two were stuffed into the trunk with only their legs sticking out. It would have been funny if Gladio weren’t so damn relieved when his greatsword came sailing towards him—hilt first because Prompto wasn’t as big an idiot as he sometimes pretended to be.

And what a difference it made to be armed. Gladio never would have thought that the Kingsglaive would be so full of cowards, but now that he had a sword in hand and vengeance on his mind, it was amazing just how quick they were to retreat. It was definitely strategic: there was no way they were giving up _that_ easily. Still, he found it equal parts gratifying and aggravating to see them scurrying like rats.

They were back in business, though, and that was what mattered. The screams of a bunch of defenseless citizens who _really_ needed some protection were drowned out by Prompto’s gunfire, and Ignis hadn’t been too honorable to knee Luche in the gut so that he could grab his daggers from the pavement. The three of them edged towards one another until they were back to back, Lady Lunafreya having slipped inside the car at some point and locked the door behind her. Well, at least she decided to take his advice. They needed all the silver linings they could get right now.

Not to mention backup. That would have been pretty good too.

“Got a plan, Specs?” he grunted as the Glaives regrouped. They were a lot more cautious on their approach this time, but they _were_ still inching closer—or the ones who _could_ were, anyway. Plenty were bleeding on the ground, unable to walk with broken bones or bullets in their legs. Now that they weren’t up against a freakishly well-armored king, Gladio could see that Prompto was one hell of a shot; nobody was dead, yet they may as well have been for as useful as they were going to be now.

He’d never admit it in a million years, but…maybe it was a good thing that they’d brought the kid with them.

_Maybe._

Prompto’s skills notwithstanding, they would need more firepower if they were going to get out of this alive. Ignis had to recognize that too: he took a second to survey the lay of the land, and from the frown on his face when Gladio peered over at him, their odds weren’t looking good. What seemed like a standoff in the few breaths they’d been able to snatch wasn’t bound to stay that way for long. They were outnumbered and outgunned, in a manner of speaking; even the Glaives that had been trying to stay out of it before were lining up behind the others, weapons at the ready. They’d never make it through the wall of steel and patriotism they were facing off against if it was just the three of them. No amount of optimism or training or confidence in himself as a Shield could trick him into believing otherwise. It was only a matter of time now, especially when they couldn’t call for backup.

Or so he thought.

Just as Ignis opened his mouth to give the orders or the bad news, whichever was most pragmatic given their situation, the sound of a horn broke the heavy silence that had fallen between them and their unexpected adversaries. They’d apparently missed the roaring engine and sudden flash of headlights, because they barely had a chance to flatten themselves against the side of the car before a yellow tow truck plowed down the road towards the city without a care for who it might hit—and if the shouts from the other side were any indication, Gladio was guessing that some poor bastard just lost a few toes.

“Now!” shouted Ignis, pushing Gladio out of the way so that he could wrench open the driver’s door and dive inside. “Quickly!”

He didn’t have to tell them twice. Prompto was already strapped in by the time Gladio sprinted around the car, but his hand faltered as he made to open his own door. The last thing he expected to see when the truck passed was a bunch of Glaives battling _each other_ instead of apprehending them. That was exactly what he was staring at, though: the contingent that hadn’t been so keen on branding them as traitors hadn’t been joining the fray after all, at least not in the way Gladio had anticipated. Instead, it was an all-out brawl of Glaive against Glaive, sword against sword until he wasn’t sure who was on which side anymore.

Strike that—there was one person he _definitely_ knew they could trust, and she just so happened to be giving Luche a run for his money. Besides Nyx, Crowe was the only Glaive he could be sure wouldn’t turn on them if for no other reason than that they all had Noct’s best interests at heart. Neither he nor Ignis had gotten to know her too well; they’d barely even seen her around Hammerhead since they were rarely there on the same days. Still, they’d heard enough about her from Noct not to doubt for a second that she adored him—who the hell _didn’t_ besides Ardyn? (And Ravus, but going there didn’t do shit for his temper.) If anyone was going to go out on a limb to defend their prince, it was her. If anyone was going to believe that they were just doing what they had to in order to keep him safe, it was her.

If anyone was going to beat the hell out of another Glaive to free up their road to the Citadel, it was her.

Sending up a silent word of thanks for her intervention, Gladio impatiently brushed aside the chorus of calls for him to get inside and hopped into the passenger seat. Ignis took off before the door shut behind him, and twin bumps told them the Glaives that had been hanging out of the trunk were getting up close and personal with the asphalt. None of them looked back to check, holding on tight as he floored it through the barricade where it had been left wide open after Cid’s truck had made the guards weigh their lives against becoming a skid mark on the street. Admittedly, Gladio hadn’t understood why Ignis felt the need to call him as soon as he got off the phone with the king—the guy wasn’t a warrior, not even close. In hindsight, it had to be one of the smartest moves he’d made: that truck was a battering ram. Anyone who tried to get in their way now… Well, they probably didn’t want to do that when even Luche had been smart enough to back the hell up.

Just the thought of that creep made Gladio’s fists clench in his lap, and he busied himself with awkwardly angling his greatsword to fit on his side of the car in an attempt not to lash out. It wasn’t going to do them any good to lose his temper now.

So, of course, Prompto had to open up that can of worms. 

“What was _that_ all about?!” he exclaimed shakily, although his hands were steady where he still held his gun at the ready as if a stray Glaive might have latched onto the bumper and was about to pounce. Considering how things were going tonight, it was a distinct possibility.

Ignis must have felt the same way, because he instantly rolled up the window. With a significant glance at Gladio, he answered, “It would appear that Ardyn’s eyes within the Citadel are more formidable than anticipated.”

“Eyes?”

“Spies,” spat Gladio, glaring out the window at the thankfully deserted streets.

It took a second for Prompto to reply to that, and Gladio almost wished he wouldn’t. All of this was wrong: their lives were never meant to be simple, but it was like everything they’d ever known had been turned on its head until he wasn’t sure who they could trust and who they couldn’t anymore. Ironically, he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad about it: this was their penance, in a way. It was the universe telling them that they’d hurt Noct and now had to suffer the same thing he had when his entire world got spun around only to leave him reeling and pissed off. Gladio just wished that the universe could have picked a better time and preferably a group of people that didn’t wield weapons quite as well as they did to prove its point.

Prompto didn’t know the Kingsglaive, though, nor did he get just how massive a betrayal this was. Loyalty probably wasn’t something anyone taught in the empire anyway, so that was no surprise. At least he had the sense not to point out that he wasn’t spying for the enemy anymore: of all the things Gladio didn’t have the patience for right now, that had to be in the top five. They could have that discussion after they worried about the spy that _was_ still an active threat.

“So, you think Ardyn sent that guy to kill us?” he asked without drawing attention to the obvious behemoth in the room.

“It’s highly doubtful,” countered Ignis with a shake of his head. “Luche is ambitious, but I find it unlikely that he could have gained the sort of clout to orchestrate that execution on his own.”

“ _Botched_ execution.”

“Quite.”

“Which means we’re hunting down a much bigger fish,” grumbled Gladio, his mind already awhirl with potential suspects. Or _one_ potential suspect, really. It wasn’t like it got much bigger than Luche. Cor was never going to betray Noct, and his father would sooner jump off the Citadel’s observation deck than see King Regis in any more pain.

That only left a candidate Gladio couldn’t believe they hadn’t suspected before.

Sensing the direction of his thoughts, Ignis hurried to warn him, “Now, now. We mustn’t make assumptions until we have all the facts.”

“What’s to assume?” scoffed Gladio, grabbing the door handle as Ignis took a corner at the kind of speed that should have flipped the car. “He’s the only one who wasn’t out there with everybody else.”

“The king might have asked him to stay behind to protect Noct.”

“That’s Nyx’s job. Not like King Regis would leave him to Drautos.”

He saw Prompto open his mouth in the rear-view mirror, but he closed it again with a squeak when he practically found himself in Lady Lunafreya’s lap a moment later. She didn’t seem to mind, although Ignis tutted disdainfully under his breath as Prompto hurried to right himself. It wasn’t like he had much room to talk, of course: that was what happened when you took a speedbump fast enough to send them flying a few feet before they hit the ground with a crash that made Gladio worry for the chassis. Oh, well—it would give Cid something to do later, and they had more important things to worry about than some princess’s fragile dignity.

Like the shadows that were taking on a life of their own not far ahead of them.

Recovering with a red-faced apology, Prompto gripped the back of Ignis’s seat and leaned forward to ask, “Who’s Drautos?”

 _That’s the question of the hour_ , Gladio mused without speaking, training his eyes on the daemons that Cid was mowing down a few blocks up. At the moment, he didn’t really trust what was going to come out if he opened his mouth.

Instead he left it to Ignis, who suddenly seemed determined to keep his eyes on the road and his thoughts to himself now that they were entering the main part of the city. If his death grip on the steering wheel was anything to go by, then Gladio was hazarding a guess that he didn’t want to voice their suspicions for fear that that might make them true. Okay, so it was up to him to bring Prompto up to speed, then.

He would have if he could have, anyway. Seconds stretched on into minutes as he struggled to form the words, but nothing came to mind. All he could do was stare out the windows at the scenes of destruction that awaited them in Cid’s wake.

Ignis didn’t stop for any of it, and in spite of his own shame over leaving civilians to fend for themselves, Gladio was grateful for that. He was a Shield. His place was with his charge no matter what befell the citizens of Insomnia in the meantime. He didn’t want to dwell on the swathes of daemons lining the streets or the bright flames glowing ominously below the bridge. They couldn’t get sidetracked by the motionless bodies on the ground as they entered downtown or the towering giant that nearly cleaved their car in two with a gargantuan sword as they sped underneath at the last second. They had to ignore the way the car pitched and jerked over the broken pavement where monsters had already wandered through in search of prey.

They had to put all of that behind them, but that wasn’t the reason why Gladio couldn’t speak. No, it was worse than that.

As they rocketed towards the Citadel in silence, Gladio realized he couldn’t answer Prompto’s question because he didn’t _know_ the answer—and that was more dangerous than he wanted to think about.

 

***

 

But for the resonating echoes of chaos in the distance, the courtyard was silent. A glance was enough to tell Regis why, not that he had expected any different. This was not a match meant for his men; it was not a match meant for the other mages. This moment, this battle of light and dark had been destined for himself and the traitorous abomination that stood quite at his leisure amidst a circle of bodies, the only remaining evidence of the guards that had attempted to do their duty in defending both king and country. Their blood flowed freely in pools around them, rivers of life that ran endlessly over Ardyn’s shoes.

That did not appear to bother him. If anything, he seemed to bask in the metallic odor of human souls traveling to the beyond by his hand.

So confident was he in his own invincibility that he did not turn at the sound of their boots against the Citadel’s steps or the swish of steel when Cor drew his blade from its sheathe. He cared not at all, and why should he? In this final hour, he had all that he ever dreamed of: seemingly eternal darkness and Regis backed into a proverbial corner. There was no need to fear that which had never been able to best him in the past and presumably could not improve in the future.

But Regis was determined to change that. He was determined to be the one who separated Ardyn’s head from his body and mounted it on a pike for the world to see what happened when someone came for his kingdom and his son. He was determined to avenge the losses that he had incurred on the will of a madman who cared only for revenge. Now was the time, and if he fell, it would be his atonement for all that he was not strong enough to thwart.

As always, Ardyn cared little for the resolve that had Regis striding forward, his retainers following with weapons at the ready. Rather, he seemed to ignore their presence entirely as he removed his hat and held it out to the lightless city.

“Ah, Insomnia,” he lilted with a grand and sweeping gesture, “the jewel in the crown of the Lucian kingdom. What a beautiful sight it makes this way.”

“Beautiful?” Regis rejoined sharply, unable to help himself. Ardyn’s taunting was hardly a new development, yet he rose to the bait regardless. Too frayed were his nerves for him to do otherwise.

His voice, it seemed, was all it took to garner the mage’s full attention. He whirled on his heel and lowered himself into a mocking genuflection that Regis now recognized as all too similar to the ones he had once believed to be genuine. The years had offered him greater insight, however, and he tightened his grip on his sword in preparation for an attack he knew would come. It was merely a matter of when.

Ardyn was in no rush, likely savoring the moment of his assumed victory as he straightened and put a hand to his ear.

“My dear King Regis, do you not hear the sounds of your people rejoicing? What a favor it would have been to bring you this joy long ago.”

Shaking his head, Regis swallowed his rage and forced down his bitterness to answer, “There is no joy in the darkness you wield, nor will it save you from the wrath of the gods.”

“The _gods_?” inquired Ardyn with a low and menacing chuckle. If he was at all concerned about the destruction of the Crystal, he was keeping it to himself. Instead, he paced unhurriedly towards them with a sardonic, “It was my belief that Your Majesty did not approve of prostration to the Six. Indeed, that was one matter in which we were quite agreed.”

“My judgment will come, as will yours,” was all Regis said in reply, unwilling to offer him more than that. He had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he might well be deemed more worthless than the most infinitesimal speck of dust in the grand scheme of the universe by the Six’s standards. Even so, his beliefs were not important. His past was not important. All that mattered was ending this.

Now.

Ardyn must have spied the telltale flick of his wrist or the burning passion with which he lunged forward, because he was not there when Regis slashed through the suddenly empty air. It was an old trick, not to mention a childish one that he should not have fallen for, and he immediately brought his sword around in preparation for the mage’s reappearance. The blood beneath his boots made the ground slick, yet he kept his balance even as amused laughter displaced the atmosphere by his ear. There was no time for him to react before the ground vanished and Regis was sent flying by some invisible force he could not identify.

Pain blossomed throughout his body when he hit the ground half an instant later and, cursing under his breath, immediately scrambled onto his feet. Every joint protested in a glaring reminder that he was no longer the untried prince who had wielded a sword with youthful ferocity; it had been years since he was forced to arms, and his deceptively firm grip on his blade did not change that. It was in moments like this when he had no choice but to register that he was growing old: his muscles betrayed him even as he encouraged them to action once more.

The fourth mage did not have such troubles. Whether he had lost his immortality with the light of the Crystal or not, he remained as strong and powerful in body as Regis had ever seen him. He deflected Clarus’s attacks with a wave of his hand, and Cor was never quite capable of flanking him before he could vanish, suddenly resurfacing halfway across the courtyard with a gleeful chuckle.

Of course, that was merely evidence of what Regis had always known: this was all a game to him. Humans, beasts, the gods themselves meant nothing. They were all his playthings, entertaining to manipulate when the fancy struck him but otherwise entirely dispensable. Even now, without the blessings of the Six or the empire’s might behind him, he drew out their exchange as though he had nothing better to do—and nothing to worry about.

Not once did he move to run Cor through when he was close enough that it would have been simple. Not once did he wrest Clarus’s blade away with the tendrils of darkness that erupted from the ground to knock them back. Not once did he parry Regis’s incessant and admittedly frenzied attacks as they grew increasingly reckless. Rather than take any one of the openings that they provided, he simply darted around the courtyard in obvious amusement.

“Stand and fight, coward!” Clarus eventually growled when he evaded yet again. This time, they found him leaning casually against the gates, his grin as wide as his arms where they were stretched out at his sides.

“Oh, but I do so enjoy this little exercise,” he retorted carelessly, utterly at ease with the situation. For all their efforts, they did as much damage as flies, and Regis had no doubt that he believed them to be of equal value.  

There was one thing, however, that not even this former mage of the Six could anticipate. There was one thing that, for as knowledgeable as he always seemed with regards to the movements of his enemies, he simply could not fathom. His scorn for what he considered the weakness of humans, his disdain for Regis’s all too mortal love for his child blinded him to just how deep their fortitude ran.

That was why his sneer melted when Regis let his arm drop idly to his side. That was why his eyes narrowed when they did not make a move to pursue him any further than they already had.

And that was why he did not see it coming when the blaring of a horn rang out above the distant screams and a monstrous yellow truck smashed through the gates, crushing Ardyn underneath its nose and _still going_.

Perhaps it was callous that Regis smiled grimly, but it could not be helped. Not when the vehicle screeched to a halt at the center of the courtyard and one of his oldest, most trusted friends jumped down from the driver’s seat with a familiar grunt of exertion. Cid was bent with age, the years having stolen from him much of the strength that Regis also mourned the loss of, but his vitality had never been in question. He was, after all, the one who had single-handedly raised two children on his own all this time. It was also how he had gotten here so quickly when Ignis had not yet contacted him mere hours earlier.

Whether he was concerned with his own dwindling physical presence or not, Cid did not refrain from pausing beside his vehicle and spitting on the ground with a murderous glare at the place where the fourth mage had left a sizable dent in the hood. This sacrifice, at least, was more palatable than the others; Regis resolved to see the damage fixed before his friend departed the Crown City. It was far too optimistic for him to believe that he would stay when he had created his own world at the outpost, nor should he have had to choose. Noctis’s condition was what brought him here now, and although it hurt to remind himself that that was all he could hope to expect, it was more than enough. Their shared love for his son might not have been what the Dream Guardian had in mind when he altered Ardyn’s curse, but they would use it to save him nevertheless.

In a manner of speaking, of course. Some things never did change regardless of their age or distance.

“Could’a left the damn gates open,” muttered Cid by way of greeting as he approached.

Regis’s smile turned a bit more genuine, and he nodded in acquiescence. “Apologies, my old friend. I am afraid we were caught unawares.”

Scoffing, Cid retorted, “Ain’t surprisin’. Y’all worry so much ‘bout _plans_ that’cha don’t see what’s right in front’a your nose.”

There was no arguing to the contrary, so Regis did not endeavor to do so. He merely sighed in regretful agreement and watched a second, more familiar car tear through the unrecognizable remains of the bars that had covered the entrance to the Citadel moments ago. It hardly rolled to a stop before Gladiolus was leaping out of the passenger seat, greatsword in hand and looking so very much like his father when they were younger. The same fire was in his eyes, the same feverish need to act—to _defend_. As such, he did not pause to acknowledge them, nor did Ignis and the boy Regis recognized from numerous photographs as Prompto. Rather, they made straight for the flatbed of the truck, where Clarus and Cor were already examining the underside on their hands and knees.

Their curses and expressions of dismay did not surprise Regis. The mystified yet solemn gazes they leveled in his direction were not at all unexpected. If it were so simple to destroy Ardyn Izunia, Regis would have had him paved into the road decades ago.

His absence, however, _did_ set Regis on edge. There was no telling laughter, no taunting barbs tossed at them from the darkness. Now that they were all here, including the imperial airship he had been warned about hovering overhead, it would have made a great deal of sense if Ardyn made his move and struck them all down in a single blow—but he did not. There were only shadows and the shouts of his people that seemed commonplace now that his ears had grown accustomed to them. Ardyn himself had disappeared, and Regis feared with a sudden pang of trepidation that he knew precisely where they would find him.

_Noctis._


	30. Ties That Bind

Waiting for the elevator was an unexpected torment, and Regis madly contemplated taking the emergency staircase in his impatience. He knew it would not allow them to reach their destination any faster, nor would it leave them with the energy to meet their enemy when they arrived. Even so, it was an enticing option when the alternative meant standing here while his son was in danger.

That was the sole conclusion he was able to draw when Ardyn had not reappeared to vex them further. Clarus had all but confirmed it, snatching his phone from his pocket and dialing Ulric’s number as they’d hastened towards the Citadel. His efforts were as futile as their hopes: the line rang, each tone a knife to Regis’s heart, but there was no answer.

The only solace he could glean from the Glaive’s lack of response was that it was not over—it _could not_ be. There was little chance that Ardyn would dispose of Noctis when Regis was not present to watch his failure come to fruition; it was even less of a possibility that he would do so without an audience of those who had been audacious enough to care for his son. Whatever they found when they apprehended their quarry, Regis entertained no delusions that it would be as simple as a body and the tempting lure of oblivion. To one as vindictive as the fourth mage, their suffering would need to reach its zenith first. That moment, unbelievable as it seemed, had not yet arrived.

At least they had managed to limit the pairs of eyes that would bear witness to the doom of his endless folly. For as greatly as they needed every hand able to wield a sword, Regis could not leave his people entirely defenseless when the Glaive was in apparent disarray. That was the most gracious description he was able to conjure for the betrayal of some of his most trusted soldiers, whom he had handpicked from all walks of Lucian life to ensure that their kingdom was well represented by those who swore an oath to protect it. That, however, was not the path they had chosen when it mattered most. To attack a Shield, even one who had not fully ascended to his post, was treason; to attack an advisor, especially one as capable and invaluable as Ignis, was similarly beyond comprehension. It was the king’s place alone to pass judgment and dispense justice, not that of the Kingsglaive.

There was no justice in ambushing his son’s retainers, the most loyal companions that Regis could ever have hoped for him to befriend. There was no justice in waylaying them at the gates as though they were common criminals seeking entry so that they might pilfer more of Regis’s goodwill. There was no justice in one soldier acting as judge, jury, and executioner in the span of a single minute.

But then, this was not an evening for justice.

Cor had agreed when Regis reluctantly yet steadfastly ordered him to take the Crownsguard and sweep the city rather than accompany them into the hands of fate. While he had never been one to stand aside in the face of what he deemed an unfair assignment, it was also not his habit to argue if commands were handed directly to him by his monarch. Years ago, when he was still young and new to his post, he never would have dreamed of defying Regis’s instructions the way he had tonight. The only difference was that, unlike his decision to allow the marshal to join him in the courtyard, Regis had been adamant in this instance. Whatever happened, someone had to safeguard the citizenry; someone had to lead them to shelter and destroy as many of the daemons as they could before they were overrun in Ardyn’s enthusiasm. Regis could no longer trust the Kingsglaive to do so, and there was no telling just how many of them were still standing now that Gladiolus had told him they were at each other’s throats. With Drautos not answering his frequency and the junior Shield’s suspicions ringing in his ears, there was but one person he considered worthy of the task.

His marshal had fought him on it. He had insisted that his place was at the Citadel, that the Crownsguard could carry on without him present. Not once had he gone so far as to call Regis a fool for suggesting that he leave, yet he had been able to hear the underlying implication nevertheless.

Ultimately, it made no difference. Regis _did_ need him on the front lines: there was no one else, and not only for this momentous undertaking. If the rest of them fell protecting Noctis, then he could not wish for anyone better to lead Lucis in his stead. Cor was not far behind him in years, but he had the strength and vitality that any ruler required to ensure the safety and stability of their people. And yes, there was always the chance that there would be no Lucis after tonight. Perhaps, when all was said and done, Ardyn would raze his kingdom to the ground and spit upon its ruins. Regardless, it was the best that he could do both for his subjects and one of the most loyal retainers he had ever had the pleasure of knowing.

Cor and the Crownsguard were not patrolling the streets of Insomnia on their own, and for that, Regis would be grateful until his last breath escaped him. While he did not doubt Ignis’s reassurances that Commodore Aranea Highwind had indeed come to their aid and not to the side of her former master, he was also not willing to risk her presence so close to his son. As such, he had requested that she join the marshal in his own mission, an appeal that she had been all too pleased to accept. Her transport was instrumental in coordinating their movements on the ground, so Cor had not protested her assistance as he had his assignment. They were by no means on friendly terms, of course—when the former commodore had offered him a position in her airship so that he might gain a more strategic vantage point, he had vehemently declined. His excuse had been that traveling by foot would allow him the chance to cover more of the city, and Regis knew that that did play a part in his decision, but it was not the sole factor. Should Commodore Highwind prove less honest than they were all hoping, it would be most advantageous if their last figure of authority was not trapped within her ship.

If she had been offended by his disinclination to accompany her, she had hidden it well. Almost before their plans were solidified, she was already in the air and sailing towards the outer districts with a haste that Regis respected far more than her rather abrasive exterior.

The contrast between the former commodore and Lady Lunafreya was stark, in that way. Where the former was straightforward and blunt with her words, the latter had been trained in the art of diplomacy and wielded it with a precision that impressed him greatly.

Until her battle cries erred in a direction that quite nearly stopped his heart.

Regis would never forget the steel in her eyes and voice, not as he finally stepped into the elevator and presumably not even when he was gasping out his last. He would never banish from his mind the image of her standing there, a mere mortal like the rest of them, and declaring that she would join Cor in evacuating the civilians. Their combined insistence that it was too dangerous, particularly for someone both unarmed and unused to her newly diminished abilities, had fallen on deaf ears.

“I cannot claim to be of use in the battle you face,” she had told him with solemn resolve, “nor will I allow myself to be valued amongst the protected.”

Rather remarkably, Gladiolus had bested Cor in his eagerness to argue, “You’ve got _no_ powers, _no_ magic. You go out there…”

The sentiment behind his outburst was clear, even if he had stopped himself before he could put it into words. Nevertheless, Lady Lunafreya had persisted. She had stood straight and tall, staring men of greater stature and experience in the eye and claiming, “Not all miracles are made by magic. I do not fear death. What I fear is doing nothing and losing everything.”

Her tenacity… Would that Regis could have taken but half of it for himself as he edged towards the wall of the lift and stared at the panel of buttons that would take them to his child. Where the princess of Tenebrae had been unyielding in her objective and accompanied Cor with her head held high, his outstretched hand trembled, hovering indecisively over the device. Had he been so bold when he was younger? Had he been so quick to accept a fate that nearly guaranteed death when he was inescapably aware of his own weakness? Had he been so righteous and self-sacrificing when he planted his feet before his father’s mage and ordered him into exile?

He hoped that were so. Otherwise, his death would have no meaning besides that which his people would attribute to any king who endeavored to stand between them and the shadow that sought dominion over all of Eos. And Noctis… His death would be nothing more than the collateral damage of a new king’s hubris.

That he should live to see his son die all for the sake of a kingdom, a throne…

A _throne_.

Regis’s finger froze above the panel as realization struck him, and he quickly moved to correct himself.

Clarus noticed immediately, although it was Ignis who observed, “We aren’t going to Noct’s chambers, Majesty?”

“No,” replied Regis briskly, decision made. As he depressed the mechanism, his stomach roiled, yet he remained firm in his choice. He would not be wrong. Of that, he was certain.

Ardyn, for all his failings, was a poetic creature. He traded in irony like a blacksmith in metal. It was only fitting that he would seek to finish this in the place where it had begun—where it had _all_ begun. Not merely the christening, but the day Regis had unknowingly sealed the fate of his family thirty years prior.

Thus, he did not hesitate. He did not vacillate between their only two options or rescind the decision he had already made as the lift ascended. He did not turn back, expecting his retinue to follow as he stalked down the corridor towards the throne room with his sword held tightly and his resolve held tighter. Despite the threat they faced, he could take courage from the loyal retainers at his side. His only regret was that, should they perish in this final attempt to preserve that which Regis had not been able to safeguard, he had not taken a moment to write epitaphs that would be appropriate for their graves.

First would be Clarus: Shield, friend, and brother. The man in whom Regis found strength when he was positive none remained.

Cid came next, his long absence rendering him no less important. He was both friend and true father to his child, the pinprick of light in the distance that he could trust when the world seemed dark.

Ignis… Well, what could he say about Ignis? Whether as a boy or a man, he had devoted every moment of his existence to being the sort of friend and confidant that Noctis needed. Words could not describe his dedication, his competence, or his indomitable will.

Then there was Gladiolus: so very like his father, yet simultaneously unrecognizable. Few would have undergone the physical trials that he had to make himself a better Shield for Noctis. In fact, Regis doubted that anyone in his service could match Gladiolus’s stature, which he had almost expressly honed to complement the slight build of his son.

Last and most befuddling was this _Prompto_. Regis would be lying if he said he was entirely comfortable with his attendance, especially knowing how easily the boy had played on his heartstrings all these years. Even so, he _was_ here. He was endeavoring to right the wrongs that he had committed and revitalize the purest mortal Regis suspected had ever walked Eos. Whatever beginnings he might have come from, his motivation to see this through was undeniable. Perhaps the inscription on his grave would not need to be as complex as his history, for there was but one word Regis thought suited him best: _brother_.

They were the ones who flanked him as he strode through the antechamber and paused at the closed entrance to the throne room. They were the ones who stood by him when _he_ stood still, accepting the consequences of his actions alongside him and never looking back. They were the ones from whom he garnered the strength to throw open the doors that stood between them and their fate and venture beyond them with the same fortitude of the young woman who used to be the Oracle.

It was fortunate that that was the case, because they were greeted with a sight so grotesque that Regis thought he would have been ill if he had not shored up his constitution in advance.

Ardyn sat the throne. Drautos was stationed at his right hand. Neither of those matters surprised him: long had he prepared for this duplicity in spite of his trust, this usurpation of what was rightfully his. In another time, in a more appropriate setting, he knew that Clarus would have had a great deal to say about it. They had, after all, engaged in a number of conversations centered around his captain’s loyalty. There had always been a question of whether or not he would seek to avenge perceived slights against him by turning to the enemy, yet Regis had not expected his treachery to run so deep.

There was no denying it now, however. Not when Nyx Ulric was mounted to the wall beside the throne by two daggers through his shoulders, blood trailing down the front of his uniform and dripping off the tips of his boots to pool on the floor below. Not when Carbuncle squirmed and squeaked in futile defiance where Ardyn held him in his lap, a captive audience to what was about to unfold.

Not when Noctis was slumped against the front of the throne with only the mage’s fingers gripping his hair tightly to hold him upright.

 

***

 

_Agony. Endless, searing agony that tore through him with a viciousness that he’d never felt before._

_Not even the last time was like this. Before Luna and Carbuncle found him, he’d thought that was as bad as it would ever get. It wasn’t like there was anything more wrenching than feeling like you were being clawed apart while caricatures of your former friends laughed in your face. Well, that was what he’d believed_ then _._ Now _he knew better._

Now _he knew what it was like to have your insides stuffed into a blender while someone turned it on high. That was the only way he could describe the sensation that attacked him from every angle without pause. Where the monsters had been intangible before, present but without form, it was as though they had saved up all of his anguish and transformed it into something more solid. They battered him—front, back, and sides—until he didn’t know which way was up or down. The claws that raked his chest were_ real _now, and he could feel the warmth of his own blood where it had to be oozing out from beneath his shirt. He assumed it was, anyway. Was he even_ wearing _a shirt? He couldn’t tell: everything was darkness, just like before, and he couldn’t see a thing through the gloom. His hands were raw and blistered and completely invisible when he pressed them to his face so that the monsters wouldn’t notice his tears of pain. His knees were bruised and scraped and unseen where he tried to pull them up to his chest in order to fend off his attackers._

_For all he could tell, he’d ceased to exist. He’d finally made his decision, and this was where it left him: sinking into the shadows with only the daemons for company._

_This time, though, there were no breaks. There were no blissful moments of oblivion where his consciousness faded away and he could simply_ drift _, hurting but not registering it until his eyes opened sightlessly again. The shadows came at him nonstop; they tirelessly attacked him like they wouldn’t have another chance if they didn’t get their punches in now. He was positive they had to be drinking his blood as it poured from the wounds he knew he had. He wasn’t sure_ how _he knew, but he did._

 _It wasn’t just his personal monsters that were different either. No, unlike his last foray into the daemons’ den, he didn’t lose his clarity. The agony didn’t rob him of his senses: he remembered Luna, he remembered Carbuncle, he remembered the journal. Those memories still swam through his mind, the cruel and malicious versions of the people he’d known underscored by gentler voices—_ real _voices that he could hear when he closed his eyes and hunted through his recollections for better days. They told him it would be all right when he was afraid he had no future and nothing going for him. They told him that he needed to be more careful before he hurt himself running through the garage. They yelled at him to pay attention with a worried edge instead of an angry one._

 _With every familiar murmur from his childhood, he felt himself sink a little lower into the darkness, but that didn’t frighten him. He wasn’t concerned about the monsters that were making quick work of tearing him to shreds now that he had apparently decided where it was he most wanted to be. In a way, it was almost comforting, the warmth that cushioned his heart at the thought of the smiles that had accompanied those words and the embraces that had softened their blows. It took him back to a time where things were_ good _, where he didn’t have to worry so much about what came next because he knew that his friends and family would be there when it eventually happened. Burrowing into those memories, letting them wash over him made it easier to surrender to his doom and accept the choice he hadn’t realized he’d made._

 _That didn’t mean he wasn’t subject to a pang of regret when he realized he would never see Luna or the people he used to care about again. That didn’t mean he wasn’t occasionally tempted to fight the monsters and claw his way towards whatever passed for consciousness that he could never seem to reach. There_ were _moments when he feared the unknown that awaited after the shadows were done with him; it was sort of hard not to when he was speared by daggers and torn open piece by piece. Sometimes, it was all too much, and he caught himself silently apologizing for not being_ better _—for not being strong enough to do what Luna and Carbuncle had tried to help him with._

_And maybe he was finally losing whatever hold on sanity he’d somehow managed to maintain in this living—living?—hell, but… When that happened and he thought words that would never reach the people from his memories, he could have sworn he heard something over the screeches and shouts of the monsters. It was always too far away for him to make out, but it cried to him with a longing that resonated through every fiber of his being. It made him reach out a hand as though someone might be waiting to grab it beyond the seemingly insurmountable wall of snarling daemons that assaulted him. It made his heart pound faster as he struggled—struggled to hear, struggled to breathe, struggle to find out what that voice wanted him to know…_

_If only the pain would stop…_

_If only it were quiet…_

_If only…_

 

***

 

“All these long years,” mused Ardyn lightly as he stared out the window by the throne, “I never could understand what it was that you found so entrancing about this city. The light blinded me to its true potential. But now?” He paused to chuckle, his gaze malevolent when he shifted it to their contingent. “I must confess that I see its worth.”

Gritting his teeth, Ignis clenched his fists tighter around his weapons and forced himself not to react. That was precisely what Ardyn wanted—getting a rise out of them seemed to be his lot in life. Therefore, it was in all of their best interests to present a united front, refusing to rise to the bait and ignoring his jeers of victory altogether.

Admittedly, he found it difficult to deny that that was indeed how it appeared: with Ardyn on the throne, their Glaive captain at his side, and the most precious of the crown jewels at his feet, Ignis felt truly defeated for the first time since they had left Noct alone in his room. Even then, he had harbored at least some hope. Noct was intelligent, brave, and steadfast—the idea that he would be unable to overcome his shock and grief at the sudden and jarring changes he had encountered was inconceivable. The notion that they would not resolve their issues with one another was concerning but not entirely plausible.

This, however, tasted like the end.

Perhaps that was not so terrible. Ignis could think of few things worse than watching Ardyn leer at them, one hand tauntingly stroking Carbuncle’s fur while the other idly jerked Noct’s head from side to side in his apparent boredom. And Noct… He looked terrible. When they left, they could have mistakenly believed that he was merely sleeping, odd and distant though he had been at the time. Now, he was transformed: his ordinarily healthy complexion was tinged with shadows that seemed to crawl beneath his skin, darkening his features and making it impossible to see his closed eyes behind the mop of black hair that curtained his face. At his sides, his arms hung limply; not once did he attempt to steady himself, not even when Ardyn’s mocking ministrations nearly sent him toppling over. It was uncomfortably similar to staring at a doll—a _plaything_. Entertaining, yes, but ultimately disposable.

The sight was not enough to quash the distant relief he felt that Noct, at the very least, had not ended up like Nyx. How he could still be alive in his condition was a mystery, and his weak struggles drew Ignis’s attention and pity alike. _Shocking_ was not the word for his position, although Ignis was hard-pressed to conjure one that was more appropriate as he observed Nyx’s endeavors to free himself. His admirable fervor was in vain, however, as the blades holding him upright did not budge. He couldn’t imagine what the Glaive he’d known since he was a child must be thinking: to be strung up, helpless and unable to escape, and merely watch while Ardyn destroyed all that he had attempted to protect?

Well, perhaps in that, they weren’t so different. There wasn’t a great deal that Ignis could do from where he stood either. King Regis was at the fore of their group, his back to the rest of them as he strode towards the throne. Their sole option was to follow—not to speak or act, but simply to remain a passive audience until their liege ordered them to move. It was unbearable, to put it mildly, and Ignis’s palms itched where they were practically glued to the hilts of his daggers. How he longed to drive them through Ardyn’s heart if it meant disentangling his fingers from Noct’s hair, even if that did not kill him. How he longed to tear that traitorous Drautos from the station Master Clarus had always inhabited and show him the price of betraying those who he had sworn his allegiance to.

The only thing that stayed his hand was the king’s steadying presence ahead of him and his comrades on either side. If it weren’t for them… Well, Ignis wasn’t certain what he would have done. There was a strange sensation in his chest, a heat that had settled within him like a wild beast in anticipation of what was to come. It made him feel an odd sense of… _something_ that he couldn’t quite identify.

Whatever it was, it grew stronger when they drew close enough to bear the full intensity of Drautos’s smug smirk where he peered down his nose at them from beside the throne. There was no doubt in Ignis’s mind that he was responsible for Nyx’s present condition—if it were Ardyn, then they likely would have found the remains of his defenestration on the pavement outside as invitation for them to convene at the literal seat of their government. No, this was a calculated motion, not the careless flailing of a madman who finally had no need to hide in the shadows any longer.

It was so calculated, in fact, that Ignis silently berated himself for not realizing the captain’s treachery sooner. There was no excuse for his ignorance, not when the signs were right in front of him the entire time.

If he wasn’t a traitor, then why had Drautos been on Noct’s floor on his birthday? There was no reason for his presence: Glaives had been stationed in the corridor outside, and Ignis didn’t recall the king ever insisting that he join them. Rather than attending to whatever business he _had_ been responsible for overseeing, they had found him standing just beyond the door when Nyx reported Noct missing. In that fleeting instant, Ignis hadn’t thought anything of it—none of them had. They had been too busy worrying, too busy scurrying along in the wake of Ardyn’s spell. The matter of Drautos’s company had quite slipped his mind as a result.

Now, however, things were different. Now, he saw it for what it was.

A trap. An assistant within the Citadel to ensure that Noct had all the help he could get in reaching the armory unhindered.

That arrogant sneer as Ardyn wrenched Noct’s head particularly roughly was confirmation enough when Ignis’s frantic, scattered memories of that night hadn’t delivered the insight that would have revealed to them their foe immediately had he paid attention. Drautos not carrying his key to the elevator hadn’t occurred to him; the fact that it had already been in the mechanism when he vanished into the lift hadn’t either. None of that had mattered when Ignis was preoccupied with fretting over where and how they would find Noct— _if_ they found him. All he’d known was that Drautos was the captain of the Glaive, and as such, it was his duty to protect the royal family.

He should have realized that Ardyn would not enlist the assistance of an insignificant retainer. Someone without influence over others would not be able to spy on the king in his most exclusive proceedings; they would not be able to convey details regarding defenses that Ardyn had spent twenty years testing.

They would not have the authority to ensure that the gates to Insomnia were left open and the daemons were allowed to wander in, unchecked and unchallenged by those whose lives were devoted to their eradication.

Ardyn’s dreams had come to completion at last, and it was all thanks to Drautos. For as powerful as the mage was, it would have been far more difficult for him to have accomplished so much without the help of one with the sort of sway that the captain of the Kingsglaive held.

 _Used_ to hold, he should say. After all, if Ardyn did not kill him, Ignis was determined that they _would_.

It seemed that retaliation would have to wait, however, because King Regis chose that moment to declare, “Begone, jester. That seat is reserved for the king, and the king alone.”

Tutting, Ardyn scolded, “The kings of men are so very particular about their toys. I _had_ thought that Your Majesty would be above such petty quarrels.”

“No quarrel involving my son can be described in those terms,” he rejoined automatically. It was as though Ardyn had been waiting for him to mention Noct—and perhaps he _had_. Whatever his aims, it was quite clear that he was only too happy to shift the focus of their verbal sparring before the blows truly fell.

“Ah, indeed,” he murmured, tousling Noct’s hair in a way that would have appeared quite genial if not for the malicious turn of his lips. From where he stood, Ignis could see his friend’s scalp stretching to accommodate his tight grip as the mage continued, “Now, I wouldn’t say that the fetching Prince Noctis is _involved_. He is far too young to understand the delicate diplomacy between two esteemed leaders such as ourselves, wouldn’t you agree?”

 _Esteemed_ was hardly the word Ignis would have used. The ones he _would_ were not fit to speak aloud lest he doom Noct to an even worse fate than the one that had already stalked his steps nearly since his birth.

King Regis, on the other hand, felt no compunction to be so cautious. Rather, he held his ground and ordered with all the authority vested in him by the blood flowing through his veins, “If, as you say, Noctis is not involved, then you will release him. An individual of your remarkable talents has no use for a mere child.”

“A _child_? Oh, you’re such a tease.”

Laughing merrily, Ardyn yanked Noct’s head up so that he could move his grasp from his hair to his cheeks, squishing them together in what he apparently considered quite an amusing manner.

“Look at this strapping young _man_ ,” he crooned in a macabre imitation of affection that set Ignis’s nerves alight with unease. “I daresay he has grown into the very image of the renowned King Regis, and how remarkable given his _long_ absence from the Citadel.”

This time, the king offered no response, his expression smooth as stone and just as rigid. Only the stiffness in his back betrayed his discomfort, and Ardyn addressed it immediately.

“One should think that Your Majesty would have been more careful with your precious son.”

“My choices are not for you to judge,” King Regis snapped, “nor is my son yours to detain. Unhand him.”

Ignis thought for certain that Ardyn would merely chuckle once more, yet he was surprised to discover that that was not the case. No, it appeared that he had had enough of the sort of games that bore no fruit—if the king was not going to play to the script that he had obviously been writing in his head for the last two decades, then it was time to change the rules of engagement.

Knowing that and understanding what small measure of logic lay behind it did not keep Ignis from nearly darting forward when Ardyn smiled blithely down at them and simpered, “As you command.”

Because in that instant, before any of them could stop him, he threw Noct from him with enough force to send his friend toppling over the edge. All the daemons in the world could not drown out the deafening, resounding _thud_ as he struck the dais below, although Ignis thought the shattering of his heart rivaled it when he simply watched his friend roll down a few steps in motionless horror. By the time he slid to a halt, his limbs were spread at awkward angles, and his black hair fanned out around his face in dark imitation of a halo. From this angle, it was easier to see the way his cheeks caved inwards and his skin had turned pallid—but that was not the worst of it.

The worst, contrary to his hopes, was yet to come.

Gladio was the first to move. While the king cautiously held his position, he barreled past in an attempt to reach Noct where he lay prone not far above them. He hadn’t made it halfway up the steps, however, when a wall of familiar armor and steel came sailing straight for him. Drautos had not been made the captain of the Kingsglaive for no reason: he was quick and agile despite his size, and he was more than capable of leaping from his post to intercept Gladio before he was able to drag Noct away from his assailants.

Against the wall, Nyx redoubled his efforts to break free, the result as worthless as Gladio’s righteous fury. Neither achieved their goals, and the rewards for their attempts were mesmerizing in their helplessness. Where Nyx grunted in pain as the blades in his shoulders audibly scraped against bone, Gladio jerked backwards for half a moment before lunging once more—but Drautos was the quicker of the two. He deflected the strike with ease, pulled Gladio in by the collar of his jacket, and gave a mighty shove that made the latter lose his footing on the steps. The younger Shield landed gracelessly on his knees at the foot of the dais, his sword the only thing propping him up as his father stepped between him and their resident traitor with his sword at the ready.

King Regis stepped forward—

Cid raised the lance he had brought with him, a relic of an age long past when he had known how to wield it—

Prompto stepped back, firearm level and aimed—

The time had come—they were finally going to test the true mettle of the mage and his unfortunate lackey—

He thought, at least.

Applause rang out in the explosive silence, effectively shattering the tension as all eyes were drawn back to the throne. Ardyn was positively _beaming_ at the show he seemed to believe was solely for him, and Ignis nearly shuddered at the sight. On more than one occasion, he had seen paintings of the kings of old on their seats of power, observing in glee as warriors and sportsmen battled before them to entertain their monarchs. The mage, however, was no king—he was _nothing_ , as far as Ignis was concerned, and the image of him where he stood in gross impersonation of those who truly deserved that station was enough to turn his stomach and set his senses ablaze. That beast within him was roaring, begging to be set free so that it could rain hell upon him for his slight against both mankind and the venerable family Ignis served.

He did not allow it—not yet. Not when Ardyn vanished on the spot and reappeared mere feet from where he had been before, this time kneeling beside Noct with a knife in hand. The other flung Carbuncle across the chamber by his tail, and he struck the wall near Nyx before falling to the floor, his white fur soaking up the blood instantly.

Perhaps Ignis should have cared more for the Dream Guardian’s safety. Perhaps he should have been more worried about the fact that Nyx’s face was paling further and his struggles noticeably ceased.

Those were distant concerns, however. He vaguely registered them, yet they were utterly unimportant in the face of this new threat. In Ardyn’s hand, imbued in the blade he held, was Noct’s doom. Until now, he had not made such a move to reveal his motives; to those who had not dealt with him before, it might have appeared that this was all some farce, that his curse had been enough. With a knife to Noct’s throat, though…

That beast inside his chest roared in rage.

Ardyn did not hear it. In fact, he paid none of them any mind as he surveyed Noct with a suddenly inscrutable expression. Gone was the disdain, the callous amusement, the blatant satisfaction in light of their suffering. It was replaced by something Ignis could not identify and honestly did not want to—nothing the mage could be thinking was good.

As it turned out, he wasn’t wrong. A moment passed where Ignis wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, frozen as they were in this tableau of calm before the storm. There was no other option available to them: if they moved, that knife might plunge into Noct’s neck. So long as they kept their distance, he was safe, even though Drautos’s expression clearly indicated that he would not have minded plowing through them all at that very moment.

 _It will take more than that_ , Ignis vowed silently. While Ardyn certainly stood the better chance of besting them despite their numbers, Drautos shared one characteristic with them that would never change regardless of whose banner he carried.

He was mortal. His heart beat like theirs and would similarly stop one day. If all worked out in their favor, that day would be today.

It was obvious that Ardyn wouldn’t mind. Drautos was expendable: from where he had come, hundreds more would be clamoring to take his place. That was why he stood on the end of history that he had chosen, after all. What chance did any human stand against the fourth mage of the Six?

Pulling in a deep breath, Ignis forced those thoughts to the back of his mind. Now wasn’t the time to lose himself to despair, not when they had come this far and had still managed to live to stand in the face of fate itself. Whatever chance they had, albeit small, came from their ability to focus and work as a team. If that meant falling to ensure the survival and success of the others, then he would do so gladly.

If that meant listening to another one of Ardyn’s riveting diatribes, then he would have to stomach it.

They all did, for he was not so willing to let them duel to the death without imparting a few final words of discouragement. Admittedly, they weren’t quite of the nature that Ignis had been expecting.

Rather than flaunting their failure in their faces, Ardyn’s keen eye was for Noct alone when he pondered aloud, “Every generation of mankind is the same. King or commoner—it makes no difference. You live, you fight, you die… Such a pitiable waste.”

“Yeah?” grunted Gladio, rising to his feet and renewing his grip on the blade in his hand. “And who is it that does the killing?”

“Why, the gods themselves, of course,” replied Ardyn as though it were simple, raising his head with an ostensibly confused frown. Ignis knew better, though; he knew that his perplexed expression belied a more sinister motive as the latter continued, “Ever have the Six sought to enslave humanity for their own purposes.”

“It is not the gods who seek to enslave humanity, but their mage,” rejoined King Regis without delay.

Shaking his head in mock anguish, Ardyn sighed heavily as he bemoaned, “Oh, how gullible you are. And here I was, assuming that you were a more knowledgeable king than your father.”

The compliment, such as it was, did not sway King Regis. Boldly, he took a few tentative steps forward, ignoring Drautos completely as he sought to bypass him on his way up the steps. The captain moved to stop him but was halted with a wave of Ardyn’s hand, the latter’s smirk returning with a more bitter edge than before.

“An Oracle, a Messenger, and a Dream Guardian. Are _these_ all the aid the Six can muster for the creatures they claim to love?” he scoffed.

“Garnering their aid is not my concern,” the king argued as he steadily continued his ascent.

“Is that so?” Ardyn paused with a low, chilling laugh that made the hair on the back of Ignis’s neck stand on end. “What a shame. You’ll be needing it.”

That was all the warning they had before the ground quaked and shadows erupted all around them. It was as though the floor had disintegrated, leaving nothing more than a ghastly slurry in its wake that clawed at their shoes at the same time as it sent them sailing towards the doors.

Ignis was vaguely aware that his glasses had flown off as he hit the floor, his daggers knocked from his hands and landing a few feet away. All three glinted starkly in the ominous purple light of Ardyn’s magic, and Ignis snatched his weapons in one hand as he struggled to settle his spectacles on his nose again with the other.

Half a second later, he wished he hadn’t.

It would have been better to see the throne room through blurred vision, the figures of his comrades and commanders and enemies indistinct and unformed. It would have been better not to witness the way they were all so far— _too_ far—from where Ardyn was holding Noct aloft in the center of the chamber. It would have eased the spark of fury in his gut to see Drautos collapsed upon the dais, his face upturned in satisfaction as he observed the proceedings from a higher vantage point. It would have made it more bearable when his eyes searched out the king only to find an expression of complete and irreparable heartbreak on his face when he came to the same conclusion Ignis could not deny.

This _was_ happening.

Ardyn was not content to let it pass without narration, and as he shifted the point of the dagger to rest against Noct’s throat, he lilted with savage delight, “The Blade of the Six was meant to be the warrior that would smite down the enemies of the gods and humanity alike, but when he saw the cruelty and indecency of mankind, he knew that his true mission was to improve upon that which the gods had failed to create. And for his loyalty, for his years of devoted service, he was cast out of divine grace and doomed to an endless existence amongst the very monsters he sought to extinguish. Such was his blessing…and curse.”

Ignis’s heart raced in his ears as he staggered to his knees, but there was no pondering the fourth mage’s—the _Blade’s_ —tale. The time for that was long past; the time for rationality had expired. His mind was too preoccupied with the way Ardyn’s darkened features lightened to something more recognizable and his familiar, aggravating cheerfulness sprang once again from the ashes of his understated fury.

“The young Prince Noctis knows that feeling quite well,” he sighed with a dramatic flair, running the point of his blade along the vulnerable skin of Noct’s neck. “Oh, what good is a world that only ever lets you down? Why not end it all right here?”

Ignis didn’t remember what happened after that. He didn’t recall whether Ardyn moved to strike or whether he chose to pontificate more about what he apparently deemed to be the injustice of the Six against him. He never heard if the king shouted in grief or Gladio in rage. The world stood still, and nothing around him was real.

Because for the first time in his life, Ignis Scientia—chamberlain, advisor, confidant, and voice of unfailing reason to the future king of Lucis— _snapped_.

The sudden rush of adrenaline that propelled him to his feet was unexpected, and Ignis couldn’t honestly say he knew _what_ he was doing when he dove towards Ardyn with a furious cry. The beast that had been gnawing at his ribcage had been set loose, and it would not be chained again until the Blade was reduced to the dust that he should have become long ago.

Perhaps it was the abruptness of his attack or sheer confidence that they would all be too emotionally crippled to act, but Ardyn wasn’t fast enough to block his initial blow—if it could be called that, which was rather generous. That creature wasn’t rational or strategic whatsoever; it did not adhere to the laws of battle the way Ignis had learned from his instructors. Therefore, his daggers lay forgotten where he’d dropped them again onto the floor, and he was forced to use his bare hands to literally _shove_ Ardyn away from his brother.

Allowing the beast to take over even for a moment made it a bit simpler not to flinch when Noct hit the floor once more, his own cries drowning out the sounds of his comrades where they were falling in behind him to pull their prince to safety.

And not a moment too soon, for the element of surprise did not last long.

Ignis was proud to say that he got in two good thrusts before Ardyn recovered himself, gripping the front of Ignis’s face in one hand and lifting him off his feet. That did not dissuade the creature, however, and he managed to kick the Blade in his chest before the latter tightened his grip to the point where Ignis couldn’t breathe past his palm. There was a sound to his rear, followed by the telltale firing of a gun, but it made no difference: although Ardyn wasn’t wearing the sort of armor that Ravus had, Ignis could see the bullet ricochet off the mage’s arm through the gaps in his fingertips long before the muttered curse behind him indicated that Prompto’s attempt to help had failed. It might have been the buzzing of a bee for all the Blade seemed to register its sting.

No, his attention was focused entirely on Ignis, his head tilted to the side in a parody of curiosity that perfectly matched the spiteful twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“And here I thought you were the intelligent one,” he tutted mournfully, his arm rearing back before he launched Ignis towards the far end of the throne room.

This time, his glasses stayed on his face, askew but at least unbroken. This time, he was grateful for it.

Drautos had descended from his lofty perch and was locked in battle with Prompto and Gladio. King Regis led the assault on Ardyn with Master Clarus and Cid at his sides.

And Noct lay prone on the floor at the center of it all, defenseless and so very vulnerable.

Calling upon the beast once more, Ignis sprinted for his daggers. It was time to do this the _right_ way.

 

***

 

 _One of the things Noctis missed about his pre-Luna abyss was that he didn’t have to think there. He hadn’t been forced to dwell on all the stuff that made his stomach clench—the lies he’d uncovered, the betrayals he’d unmasked, the false universe he’d dissected. Back at the beginning, they’d felt so far away, like they might not even be real if he closed his eyes and tried hard enough to forget them. Hell, half the time he_ had _forgotten, blissfully oblivious of who he was or how he’d gotten here as he floated through oblivion in as much peace as he could find when he was surrounded by monsters._

 _Luna had changed all that. She’d opened his eyes and made him see, even though the view caused him pain. It hadn’t mattered to her that he didn’t want to remember the garbage he’d dealt with before he ended up here; she’d sidestepped all of his veiled accusations that she was trying to torture him. If he was being honest, she hadn’t really done much besides hand him that journal and let him explore at his own pace. Well, okay, maybe she’d gone to a_ little _more trouble than that: they hadn’t sat there talking for hours on end just to discuss the weather. He assumed they were hours, at least—time didn’t seem to exist in this place. Everything was drawn out until he couldn’t tell if the_ few days _Carbuncle had first told him about had stretched into weeks or even months yet._

 _What he_ was _unbearably aware of was that his mind refused to shut down like it had back at the start. All the things they’d spoken about, the seemingly random and mundane minutia of his life that he hadn’t been able to convince himself she actually cared about in spite of her willingness to listen, swirled around in his head. The force of his thoughts and memories wouldn’t let pain cloud his mind, and with every sharp incision came an equally tormenting bout of honesty. And part of him was glad for that: the mental images of better times helped slightly, warming his chest with a pleasant sensation beneath the pooling heat of what he knew to be the blood he’d eventually drown in._

_A pleasant sensation that he didn’t hate quite as much as he had before._

_He’d tried to hold onto his anger, but the longer he spent hovering amidst the never-ending strikes of his shadowy companions, the more he came to realize that maybe…he hadn’t been right after all. He hadn’t been wrong, that was for sure: the people he cared about should have done better. They should have told him more and kept him in the loop so that everything didn’t come crashing down in the span of a single day. They should have sat with him when he was old enough to understand and told him who he was, who his father was. The fact that they hadn’t gave him every right to be pissed at them, and he refused to let anyone tell him otherwise. Even Luna hadn’t bothered: she had nodded sympathetically and told him she understood where he was coming from when he’d ranted to her about their betrayal. He…didn’t really remember when that had been or how they’d gotten on the subject, but he recalled mentioning it before one of the numerous instances where he fell asleep mid-conversation. Perhaps she had simply been humoring him, but she’d never once said that he didn’t have a right to his feelings._

_What she_ had _said was almost worse, especially now that he had the time to think about it—to realize that she was right. Maybe he had a point and his anger wasn’t misplaced, yet that didn’t mean he wasn’t wrong about a few things._

 _When he’d left Hammerhead, he thought for sure that Uncle Cid didn’t give a damn about him. After all, the king had probably kept him rolling in gil so that he would be able to provide for two children and keep the garage running without any trouble. That wasn’t even mentioning the hefty stipend Noctis imagined his uncle must have gotten purely to ensure that he had everything his heart desired when he was a kid. Who_ wouldn’t _take a deal like that?_

 _Having a few perks didn’t equal not caring, though. All those times Uncle Cid had sat with him, rocking him on his lap while he’d clutched his stuffed Carbuncle and cried over this or that—they hadn’t been necessary. Noctis figured it was pretty unlikely that the king had included that sort of thing in whatever agreement they’d made, yet his uncle had done it anyway. Not once in his life had he ever doubted that he could go to Uncle Cid for whatever he needed: there were definitely occasions when he hadn’t_ wanted _to for one reason or another, but he’d never been_ unable _to._

_As he was tossed this way and that on the tides of the monsters’ wrath, he remembered smiles and hugs and winks; he recalled being told how smart and talented he was even though he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. Those weren’t the actions of someone who had been forced into taking care of a friend’s kid. Those weren’t the actions of a person who was raising him for the money._

_It was family. It had always been family._

_Just like Nyx had always been his brother, undercover Glaive or not. The shadows didn’t want him to think about how he’d snuck chocolate into their takeout bags or given him little trinkets that he’d found to add to his treasure collection. They didn’t want him to realize that a guard didn’t have to do those things—a guard was there to protect, not kiss his ass. Not that that was what Noctis thought Nyx had been up to: he would have adored him with or without those gifts, although they were a major upside to their friendship. In all honestly, it was hard for him_ not _to admire Nyx, even knowing what he had done. As a matter of fact, the more he thought about it, the dumber he felt for not figuring it out on his own long before he had. After all, Nyx was brave and smart and all the things he’d ever thought a Glaive would be when he was growing up. The night of the…_ incident _, he’d gone out in the dark and braved the daemons purely to bring him back to the outpost. Sure, that was his job—he would have had to even if he didn’t want to. Still, he hadn’t needed to come by every day to talk to him when he woke up; he hadn’t needed to carry him out to the kitchen for meals when it would have been just as simple to bring his food to Uncle Cid’s room._

_But he had. He’d taken on extra shifts to keep himself close to Noctis’s side. He hadn’t recognized that for what it was then, but he was coming to understand now._

_With each memory, the monsters renewed their efforts. They slashed at his arms and legs when he smiled at the ghost of himself dragging Nyx by the hand to show him his latest treasure; they stabbed their barbed fingers through his stomach when he choked out a sob at the thought of the picture they’d taken that Nyx made the background on his phone for so many years that it probably should have been embarrassing._

_Guards didn’t do that. People who were only around to collect their paycheck didn’t do that._

_The list went on and on, and Noctis curled in on himself as the shadows made him pay for letting them worm their way back into his heart. The days he’d spent working with Crowe on his studies, the nights he whined and fussed when Uncle Cid tucked him into bed far too early for his tastes, the weekend adventures with Umbra while Cindy rolled her eyes at their antics, the early morning breakfast runs to see what Nyx had cooked up—they bombarded him with almost as much force as the monsters did. The persistent physical agony that plagued him every second outweighed the pain those thoughts used to cause him, however, letting them warm him from the inside even as he burned and writhed everywhere else._

_Because his uncle’s slack expression and suspiciously gleaming eyes when he’d left_ hadn’t _been uncaring._

 _The hours Nyx had spent showing him how to be a good person_ wouldn’t _have come from someone who was ready to wash their hands of him._

 _Crowe’s insistence that he take his studies seriously_ hadn’t _extended solely to the things that a little prince in training would need to know._

_As much as he might have raged against them on his birthday, as much as he had convinced himself that their lies were indication that they didn’t really care, he couldn’t lie to himself either. He could see their faces now—that voice that echoed in the distance, incomprehensible yet growing more audible by the second, reminded him that they had always been there for him in more than just a capacity born from duty. It evoked in him a longing that he never would have thought he’d feel again, a desire to tear through the cacophony of shadow and sound that assaulted him at every turn._

_It reminded him with a cadence suspiciously similar to Luna’s that he didn’t have to bury his love for them to save face, no matter how much it hurt him to do otherwise. In his head, at least, they were the people they always had been. He could turn away when the monsters that spoke with their voices and said such terrible things tried to fool him into believing that they were one and the same._

_And no, they hadn’t done what he thought would have been the right thing—but they_ had _done right by him. If that was all he could take with him as he sank deeper into the darkness, if that was all he had to hold onto when the monsters finally got tired of playing with him, then so be it._

 

***

 

All things considered, this could have been going a _whole_ lot worse.

…Okay, so, they weren’t doing so hot—but they were still alive! That had to count for something, right? Given who they were up against, Prompto totally thought somebody would have been gutted by now. Nyx was as close as they’d come so far, which wasn’t exactly encouraging, yet it was better than the alternative.

Prompto doubted it would stay that way, though. As he darted backwards to fire off a few more shots at that Drautos guy, one eye on him while the other followed Gladio’s attempt to saw his head off with his humongous sword, he couldn’t help but wonder if Ardyn had anything else up his sleeve for them to deal with. It wouldn’t have surprised him: the mage wore so many layers that he had more than enough sleeves to hide things in.

That wasn’t to say they’d all end up pinned to the wall with daggers through their shoulders, though. Somehow, he figured that would be getting off easy.

He still would have taken that over Drautos’s apparent determination to bring a whole new meaning to the phrase _beside yourself_. Seriously, what was this guy _on_? Prompto had spent his teenage years thinking that Gladio was the best the Citadel had to offer; his muscles were bigger than Longwythe when he flexed just right, and Prompto was pretty sure that he’d once gotten into a race with Umbra just for the sake of it. A meathead of his caliber should have been Insomnia’s poster boy, yet he paled in comparison to the captain of the Kingsglaive. Maybe he should have expected that: it wasn’t as if he’d gotten his position by looking like…well, _Prompto_. He harbored no delusions whatsoever that he was anywhere near as physically imposing as the dread behemoth they were fighting, but that was the whole point—he was an _infiltration unit_. They weren’t supposed to make people think they could snap you in two and tie the rest in knots. If they did, that would sort of defeat the purpose of their missions.

He’d thought so, anyway, but it seemed that some guys could get away with putting a catoblepas to shame _and_ spying at the same time. It almost made Prompto wish that he’d worked a little harder on his muscles instead of his stamina when he was in Hammerhead. While the latter was useful in not falling down at the wrong moment, Prompto had to admit that it didn’t do much when it came to parrying blows that would have sent him flying out the window if he weren’t fast enough to duck.

And if they didn’t straight up impale him, because…y’know…that was a thing.

Which was why he kept his distance and focused on finding a weak spot in Drautos’s obnoxiously sturdy armor while Gladio took point. Prompto couldn’t be sure, and now was definitely not the moment to ask, but he had a feeling that the Shield had a bone to pick with this guy beyond just his working with Ardyn. That was enough as it was, yet there was something…savage about the way he threw himself into the heat of the battle. On more than one occasion, Prompto thought that he was about to make a fatal mistake in his reckless attacks right before he managed to evade the captain’s ripostes in the nick of time.

Regardless of his luck, with him flailing around like a chocobo on steroids, it was a real bitch for Prompto to get a shot in. It wasn’t that he thought he’d hit the wrong target—he was too damn good for that, not that anyone else knew the extent of his training. Still, he didn’t want to tempt fate and end up doing their enemy’s job for him. They’d already bitten off more than they could chew as it was.

While he and Gladio chipped away at Drautos’s seemingly unlimited well of energy (because seriously, they weren’t doing a whole lot more than that), the others were split between attacking Ardyn and trying to get Noct out of the line of fire. He hadn’t budged since they’d entered the throne room, and Prompto inwardly cringed at the confirmation of Ignis and Gladio’s story. It was just plain eerie: Noct had always liked naps and was a pretty heavy sleeper at the worst possible times, but this was ridiculous. Someone needed to get him away from the thick of the fighting, especially when Ardyn wasn’t too picky about those magical shadowy tendril things that intermittently erupted from the floor to trip them up. Otherwise…

You know what? He wasn’t going to think about _otherwise_. _Otherwise_ could go to hell.

So could Drautos, who apparently decided they weren’t worth his time as he swatted Gladio away like a fly and made a beeline for where Cid was trying to do exactly what Prompto had been considering a few seconds earlier. He wasn’t exactly much use against the captain of the Crownsguard right now anyway, not when Gladio was determined to hit him from a million different angles at once. No one would notice if he simply slipped away and dragged Noct to safety.

Cid, to his utter surprise, was faster. Prompto had never really thought about what the guy must have been like in his less ancient years, but if tonight was any indication, then he was _totally_ wasted at the garage.

The truck thing was no big deal, even if Prompto _had_ gotten a vindictive chuckle out of it—that hadn’t taken any brawn or strategy whatsoever besides hitting the gas and crossing his fingers. Knowing Ardyn, he could probably have a building fall on top of him and come through without a scratch. Whatever he was made out of had to be some tough stuff: where the king was beginning to show the telltale signs of battle fatigue, the mage looked like he’d just gotten started. His frankly stupid levels of invincibility aside, though, it had been beyond satisfying to watch a big yellow truck flatten him even for the tiniest second.

The lance Cid had dragged out of the vehicle behind him admittedly wasn’t bound to do as much damage, yet Prompto couldn’t deny that it was pretty damn impressive all the same. Of course, he hadn’t thought the old dude could actually _wield_ it: any of his battle skills had to have been learned decades ago, and that sort of thing didn’t just follow you around without practice. Five years not firing a gun wasn’t that bad—Cid hadn’t touched a weapon in at least twenty. That had been Noct’s impression, at least; neither of them would have pegged him for the kind of warrior who could shove his polearm up Ardyn’s ass and tell him to choke on it.

No, he’d left that last part out, but Prompto figured it had been implied.

Anyway, Cid was obviously a good enough soldier (which he made a mental note to ask about later— _way_ later) to know where he needed to be. Now was as good a time as they were going to get since Prompto and Gladio were keeping Drautos busy and the king, Ignis, and the senior Shield were doing the world’s most awkward dance with the world’s most annoying mage.

So, like the total asshole he was, the captain dropped them like rotten gysahl greens and raced to meet him where he was sprinting towards Noct with the kind of energy he never seemed to have at the garage. Bullets weren’t enough to dissuade him, nor could Gladio catch up with him before he came within striking distance of one of the few people who’d ever given Prompto a chance.

Yeah. That wasn’t happening.

Lunging forward, Prompto did the only thing he could think of given that his choice of weapon was painfully useless here: he threw his gun straight at Drautos’s head.

Should he have felt an intoxicating sense of satisfaction from the sickening _crunch_ it made against his skull? Probably not. Did he regret it? _Hell_ no.

The heavy metal hitting the back of his unarmored head didn’t do much, but it did throw him off guard long enough for King Regis to realize what was happening and step in to protect his son while Ignis and Clarus kept plugging away at Ardyn. In that moment, Prompto realized that Cid being here wasn’t just a matter of his affection for Noct: he and the king _had_ to have done this before. There was no other explanation for how they seamlessly came together, back to back, and swung their weapons towards Drautos’s face in tandem. They didn’t get in each other’s way—they didn’t even bump elbows, they were _that_ in sync. If it weren’t for the utter train wreck that used to be their friendship, Prompto would have said it was like how he and Gladio were working together. It involved a little luck and a lot of mind reading so that when one went left, the other went right.

Drautos, on the other hand, went _backwards_. The pointy ends of their weapons missed him by an inch as he dodged, swinging his own blade low enough that Prompto would have jumped over it if it were him.

While Cid did exactly that, King Regis wasn’t willing to ceded even a centimeter of ground. He rotated his sword in his grasp to meet Drautos’s with a ringing _clang_ while Gladio ran up behind him to deliver what would have been the final blow—except this was _so_ not going to be that easy.

They apparently weren’t the only ones who could read minds, because Ardyn chose that moment to send a wall of shadow careening straight for them. Prompto barely managed to evade it in time, throwing himself to the floor to avoid its trajectory.

The others… They weren’t so lucky.

Or maybe it wasn’t all bad: Noct wasn’t in the way anymore! He’d just been thrown across the throne room— _again_. Prompto was starting to notice a pattern here.

That was why he knew what was about to happen long before he noticed that the only ones who hadn’t been knocked clear of each other were the king and Drautos.

This was a _game_. Ardyn was _playing_ with them. And what better way for some smarmy jerk to play with people he treated like dogs than by going with the classics— _fetch_.

Prompto had thought that it was _them_ doing the distracting, but all of a sudden, he felt like maybe that wasn’t the case. It was the mage who kept Ignis and Clarus busy; it was Noct who drew Cid’s attention. Gladio was busy shaking off the dizziness he _had_ to have since his head had hit the floor pretty hard, and the little white—or red, actually—fox thing was scurrying up the front of Nyx’s coat to do…something. Prompto alone noticed how the king reinforced his stance; only he witnessed how Drautos sneered in his monarch’s face with murderous intent.

Words were exchanged, although Prompto didn’t hear what they were. If the little bit he’d gotten out of Ignis and Gladio in the car was anything to go by, then he assumed it had to be something petty and childish befitting the sort of moron who betrayed a whole kingdom all because he didn’t get promoted to _Commodore_ Hot Shit instead of just _Captain_ Hot Shit. Whatever it was, there wasn’t enough time for Prompto to reach his gun and provide what cover fire he could before Drautos struck.

It was like watching a pair of artists. Instead of paint, though, they were using steel and the flurry of their clothes to create a portrait that was both terrifying and _awesome_ at the same time. For each of Drautos’s thrusts, King Regis had a parry prepared; for each of King Regis’s parries, Drautos had a counter-strike lined up. Blow for blow, inch for inch, they matched each other in strength and will and ability.

Until they didn’t.

Prompto almost missed what went wrong, it happened so fast. All it took was one opening, one vulnerable spot where King Regis anticipated in the wrong direction and paid the price for it immediately. His shout of pain wasn’t anywhere near as loud as his Shield’s answering yell, but the latter wasn’t in any position to help, nor was his son. When the edge of Drautos’s blade sliced through the meat of the king’s right leg, they were both too busy fending off Ardyn’s increasingly frequent attacks to cross the distance between where they were pinned down and where King Regis fell to the floor. Ignis and Cid weren’t much better: they froze in the process of teaming up to haul Noct towards the door, turning in the king’s direction with twin expressions of horror. They knew they wouldn’t make it—they knew they _couldn’t_ make it.

Which meant it was up to him.

It didn’t take much thought—actually, it didn’t take _any_ thought. Maybe he hadn’t been born in Lucis, and maybe he’d done some terrible things in the name of Niflheim, but that was in the past. Right here, right now, he wasn’t some Niff. He wasn’t the person, the _weapon_ , he’d been trained to become. He was Prompto Argentum, the guy who’d made up a name for himself and chosen to defy his orders to keep his first real friend alive. He was the one who had spit in Ardyn’s face in Gralea and told him that they would never use him again.

He was a _Lucian_ , and that was _his_ king.

So, he didn’t think. He didn’t hesitate. He simply threw himself between the king and his assailant, snatching the former’s sword where he’d dropped it to put pressure on his wound.

It wasn’t until Drautos’s blade met his stolen one that he remembered guns were _so_ not as heavy as these stupid things. He swore his teeth rattled in his mouth when the two weapons made contact, and if it weren’t for the death grip he had on the hilt of King Regis’s sword, he was pretty sure it would have vibrated right out of his hands. Good thing he wasn’t letting his brain focus too hard on it, because if he had, he never would have shoved back against the captain’s blow in his preoccupation with wondering whether he’d need dentures when all this was over.

Honestly, Prompto wasn’t sure who his sudden deflection came as a bigger shock to: himself or Drautos. The latter clearly hadn’t expected him to get in the middle of this; his expression told Prompto that much, although it was kind of obvious from the way he staggered backwards too. It wasn’t that the parry had been all that great—in fact, Prompto figured it would go down in history as the worst evasive tactic ever committed by a trained soldier…or any soldier. From the looks of things, it was more the element of surprise that had worked in his favor, which was both satisfying and super disappointing. If he’d been stronger, maybe it would have taken a little longer for Drautos to recover his balance and come back swinging.

This time around, Prompto _wished_ it was as easy as just a few missing teeth. That would have been a whole lot less embarrassing than ending up on his ass with the king’s blood soaking into his pants. At least he didn’t drop the sword, though—now _that_ would have been a blow to his pride.

Instead, he was going to take a few from Drautos, who seemed to get even more pissed off at his intervention by the second. Every attack came down a little harder, but Prompto refused to drop his weapon. His arms were trembling, his fingers felt like they were going to fall off, but he held strong.

…Maybe that wasn’t the best adjective.

He held on, anyway. He’d probably never get the ringing out of his ears, but if he allowed himself to falter even for a second, he wouldn’t have to worry about that—he’d just be lucky to _have_ ears.

Deafened or not, he could somehow still hear shouts of rage and frustration from his companions, none of whom were able to make it past Ardyn’s tricks to help get the king to safety. It was actually sort of surprising that he was so willing to let Drautos take down King Regis himself. From what Prompto had gathered of the bits and pieces he’d been given over the last couple of days, he would have thought that the mage wanted to do the honors. That was the whole point of cursing Noct in the first place, right? To make the king suffer?

Then why was he content to play the straight man while Drautos got all the applause?

Who was he kidding—that was a simple one. Growing up in Niflheim meant he could recognize mind games from a mile away. Infiltration units might have been trained for subtlety instead of rage-monster transformations like this guy, but they all learned how to twist things to get what they wanted and needed out of unsuspecting idiots. And…yeah, that was them in a nutshell right about now. It wasn’t a matter of letting Drautos put his sword through the king’s head—it was a matter of showing King Regis that one of his most trusted retainers was _capable_ of murdering him before Ardyn stepped in to deliver the fatal blow. It was brilliant. It was devious.

It was so. Damn. _Stupid_.

_Why can’t anything just be easy?!_

If the captain knew that he was just as expendable as the rest of them, then he obviously didn’t care. He was too consumed by the feverish fury that Prompto could easily read in his hardened gaze, which played right into Ardyn’s hands. He had to know that it wouldn’t be long before he went the same way as his target, what with the mage’s total lack of consideration for people in general. Prompto hadn’t really thought about the fact that Ardyn would have had a title just like the rest of the mages, but now that he knew it, there was no denying the fate of anyone who interacted with him. Even the ones who had supported his vendetta against King Regis ended up dead when their usefulness ran out. Drautos would be the same, and if the Blade truly did intend to make good on all his alleged threats from years before Prompto had ever met Noct, then it wouldn’t be long.

As it turned out, it was sooner than he was anticipating, albeit very differently than he would have thought. One moment, Drautos was bringing his sword down over and over and _over_ against Prompto’s rapidly weakening defenses; the next, there was a bloody dagger sticking out of the side of his neck.

And it wasn’t Ardyn’s.

Prompto winced when the captain dropped his sword onto the marble floor beside him and fell to his knees with glazed eyes. They retained their bitter brutishness even in death, which was actually kind of impressive.

Even more impressive was the fact that Nyx was somehow able to stay on his feet long enough to watch his commanding officer expire. After all, he…wasn’t looking good. Blood was oozing sluggishly from the holes in his shoulders, and Prompto shuddered to see white bone peeking out from beneath the torn bits of his uniform. The only color he had left in his face was a slight greenish tinge that made it look like he was about to be sick even though he had probably done that long before they made it up here. Instead, he wavered on his feet before toppling to the ground, his breaths coming in pants and gasps. Prompto never would have guessed that he’d be doing that at all, but hey, wonders never ceased around here.

Now if only they could be gifted with the _wonder_ of Ardyn dropping dead. Was that asking too much? That was probably asking too much.

Still, as Prompto hurried to make sure the king was all right and found a grateful smile waiting for him, he couldn’t help heaving a sigh of relief.

_One down…_

 

***

 

_He wanted to die._

_Of all the things he’d gone through in his life—the tough times, the confusion, the utter chaos when he least expected it—Noctis had never wanted to just end it all. There had always been something to keep him going, whether it was the knowledge that there were people counting on him or simply his own curiosity as to what awaited on the other side of whatever had happened. That was what had gotten him through the nightmares and the fear; it was what had drawn him to the Citadel in the first place, not that that had done him much good. According to Luna, that was how he’d ended up here._

_It wasn’t what had made his choice for him, though. That was all on him._

_Luna had tried to get him to do the opposite, to fight against the despair and the hopelessness that had been gnawing at him with almost as much enthusiasm as the monsters. There was one point, one of the few where he’d fallen silent at his unconscious mention of his friends, that really stuck out in his mind. Even now, with the cold seeping into his body where vicious claws weren’t tearing at his skin, he could feel the warmth of her touch. She’d taken his hand in hers, forcing him to meet her eyes when she told him that remembering them didn’t have to hurt, that he could pull himself out of the shadows to greet them in the way he was always meant to._

_At the time, he hadn’t said a word, but he had known what he wanted to reply with: he wasn’t strong enough. He’d never been strong enough to pull it together, not without the people who had been his glue for almost as long as he could remember. Now that they were gone, what else was there but to sink into darkness? What other fate awaited him when he had no idea what he was doing? No one had said he would be king one day; he wasn’t prepared for that, nor was he really sure that he wanted it to begin with. To enter into that sort of covenant with the entire kingdom and not have his friends at his side? Well, they’d_ be there _, just like Ignis said—but it wouldn’t be the same. Nothing was the same._

_That was why he’d finally decided. That was how he’d ended up here. After all, how else could he have made things this much worse for himself without having unconsciously chosen to say that enough was enough? He hadn’t followed Luna into the light, and he hadn’t managed to find his own way out. That had to mean that his decision—or lack of one—had been all the monsters needed to drag him to the gates of Hell._

_Before he’d met Luna, he would have said that was okay. Who wanted to live in a world where everything you ever knew was a lie? Sometimes it was better to admit defeat when you realized you didn’t have any other choice—Gladio had taught him that a long time ago, as his friend or his Shield or whoever he wanted to be that day._

_Now, though… Noctis would be lying if he said it didn’t send a thrill of fear up his spine to think that this was it, that he’d really taken that leap and that this was the price he paid for it. Somehow, he’d thought it would be different. He never would have guessed that giving up could hurt so much or that it could take so long for the monsters to finally tear him limb from limb until there was nothing left. Why the hell were they dragging it out? They clearly didn’t want him to remember, but they weren’t in a rush to make him forget either. They weren’t exactly savoring the experience, yet Noctis was_ still here _._

_That was why, even though he attempted to push those memories away with as much strength as he could muster, there was no stopping the little voice in the back of his head that he hadn’t heard since he was a kid from crying out. It spoke like Carbuncle—not the real one, but the one that had been his best friend literally forever. It whispered to him, making him recall lazy days and competitive video gaming and vegetable-riddled meals and selfies and pranks and one-arms hugs and worried glances and late-night reassurances and…_

_And…_

_And if this was going to be the end of him, if he had to die here in the dark with no one else to witness it, Noctis couldn’t help thinking that it would have been nice if he could have seen his friends just one more time._

 

***

 

Seeing Drautos lying in a pool of his own blood for a change brought Gladio so much savage pleasure that he didn’t even care that he hadn’t been the one to bring the captain down. Sure, he would have liked to—that bastard deserved as slow and painful a death as they could possibly make it, and he would have been perfectly fine with taking his time in the attempt. There were plenty of fun little exercises they could include, like leaving him a scar similar to the one Gladio knew he was going to have on his face from one of the swipes he hadn’t dodged as quickly as he should have. The voice in his head that always sounded obnoxiously like Ignis reminded him that this wasn’t really the place for that sort of thing, but hey, a guy could dream.

If it couldn’t be him, though, he had to admit that he was glad Nyx had gotten the last say. Gladio never was much for poetry, yet he could appreciate the poetic irony in the fact that the Glaive was the one who had felled his own captain. No one else would have been anywhere near as appropriate, even though Nyx had never really been under Drautos’s command to begin with. That honor went to the idiots that had stopped them at the border and tried to kill them because they had orders. Brains? Not so much. They wouldn’t have turned on Drautos, not unless King Regis had ordered it and maybe not even then if they were as dirty as he suspected. If they weren’t, Gladio had no doubt that they still would have hesitated and ended up just more wasted space that they didn’t need right now.

Meanwhile, Nyx had been calling his own shots for so long that his captain couldn’t hold a candle to what he’d accomplished. Between his service record and the daggers that had turned him into a wall ornament looking too familiar to be mistaken for anyone else’s, Gladio could let it slide that he hadn’t taken Drautos down himself. With a guy like Nyx on their side—unstable and running on fumes as he was—it was only fitting that he threw the last punch.

It was a good thing _Cor_ hadn’t been the one to betray them. If he had, Gladio would have been first in line to take him out, being a member of the Crownsguard and all. Anyone who stepped in his way probably wouldn’t have ended up any better.

That was apparently the situation they were going to find themselves in, too, because Ardyn didn’t wait for Drautos’s body to hit the floor before he pulled out all the stops. The formidable powers Gladio had been waiting for him to use finally made an appearance, and while he was relieved that there was nothing else the mage could possibly throw at them, he also couldn’t help a small huff of annoyance. They’d already been at this so long that his muscles were starting to protest the exertion, and _that_ was saying something considering how damn much he trained them to keep that kind of thing to themselves. He kept putting them through their paces, though, darting out of the way every time one of those shadowy pillars exploded through floor at his feet in an effort to knock him off balance.

This time, it didn’t disappear like it had before. Instead, it swung around in a wide arc, slamming into his chest with enough force to launch him through the air.

That was happening _way_ too much tonight.

Gladio gritted his teeth as he landed, immediately hauling himself to his feet and surveying the lay of the land before he leapt back into the fray. Things could be going worse, but they sure as hell weren’t great.

Cid had recovered surprisingly quickly after being thrown halfway across the damn room, and while he and Ignis hadn’t managed to get Noct out of here, at least he wasn’t still underfoot where he would just be in the way.

His father was holding his own, although Gladio had no idea how long that was going to last.

The king was down for the count. Gladio couldn’t tell the extent of the damage from here, but if the way his face had lost all color and he didn’t get back to his feet was any indication, then it looked like he wasn’t going to finish this fight on his own.

Prompto… Well, shit. He didn’t know _what_ to think about Prompto. He was busy stripping off his vest to tie it around King Regis’s thigh as a makeshift tourniquet, his fingers deft and his expression singularly focused on his self-appointed mission to keep him alive.

When the rest of them had been thrown back, Gladio had thought for sure that the king was a goner—which was surprising. He never would have expected Ardyn to make this whole mess only to let someone else do his dirtiest work for him. Prompto appearing out of nowhere, throwing himself in the line of fire and holding Drautos at bay until Nyx finished the job? Gladio would never have expected _that_ either. Of course, he wouldn’t have expected Carbuncle to let the Glaive down or the latter to have enough strength to take out Drautos, but… Apparently, he needed to alter his expectations.

This didn’t change anything, though. Stepping in and saving the king didn’t make up for all the shit he’d pulled over the years, _especially_ that garbage he’d made up about coming from Tenebrae just to save face—or save _his_ face, given that Gladio had been more than ready to put his fist through it at the time. It was a start, though. He could allow that much.

And hey, who would have thought he’d be glad that Ignis hadn’t taken his side and instead made him cart the kid back from Gralea?

…As far as either of them had to know, he _wasn’t_.

Even if he was, his relief was wiped clean from his mind when he noticed the position they were all in. With the king down and Prompto only now rejoining the fray, with Cid and Ignis moving to help his father as the latter struggled to take on Ardyn by himself… Gladio honestly had no idea how any of them were still standing with all the dark, daemonic blades that swept through the room now that Ardyn’s toy was out of commission.

That was when it hit him: Drautos _hadn’t_ been meant to kill the king. Hell, Ardyn probably hadn’t even intended to let him live at all after tonight. He was nothing more than a means to an end like the rest of them. He weakened them, split their focus so that they wasted all their energy on a decoy, and then fell just in time for the Blade to claim his prize.

It was exactly the kind of devious nonsense that made Ardyn _Ardyn_.

What he couldn’t figure out as he hurried towards the center of the battle was why he wasn’t bringing out the big guns. Gladio had been three the day he cursed Noct and didn’t remember much about the affair, but there had always been one thing that stuck in his mind even when the rest was lost to passing time: those swords. Those magical, translucent swords. More than one guard and Glaive had been cut down by them while Ardyn focused on the former Oracle, and Gladio recalled thinking that it was the scariest sight he’d ever seen. There had been no defense against them; there was no way to block something that didn’t have actual form. In hindsight, that was probably why he was the Blade—with weapons like those, he could bring down the entire city.

Well, maybe back then. As Gladio sliced through one murky black sword and ducked under the trajectory of another, he smirked when he realized that they were finally seeing what it looked like when a mage didn’t have access to the Crystal anymore. It didn’t make much difference when Ardyn had clearly found plenty of power elsewhere, but at this point, he was willing to take whatever they could get. If it meant that they’d be able to shut the bastard down for good, then it was worth it.

That, however, was getting tougher and tougher by the minute. Ardyn didn’t need Drautos to keep them busy when he was perfectly capable of barraging them with a spray of attacks on his own. There were shadows in the air—there were shadows on the ground—there were shadows exploding out of the walls and the ceiling and everywhere else for all Gladio could tell. When it came to the Blade himself, they could never get their hands on him. Whenever he got close enough, his sword met empty air and a jeering laugh would erupt from somewhere else.

But one thing was pretty damn obvious no matter how many times he vanished or how many times he threw them a curveball: he didn’t want them getting to Noct.

If any of them broke off their attack to move him out of harm’s way, he was there to send them reeling. If they attempted to edge in his general direction, he’d bring up a wall of shadow between them and their friend that they couldn’t penetrate. The door was so close—Ignis and Cid had almost gotten him to the corridor before the king collapsed—yet they were thwarted anytime they tried to finish what they’d started.

Something about this reeked of a plan they didn’t have any information about, and Gladio didn’t like it one bit.

Growling in frustration, he wheeled around the millionth time Ardyn disappeared, but one of the shadow glaives was waiting to meet him instead of his target. If it weren’t for Ignis’s quick thinking and even quicker reflexes, he would have followed Drautos’s example. Instead, the imitation blade disintegrated when a dagger imbedded itself into the side of it, leaving Gladio to heave a sigh of relief as his friend appeared instantly to his left.

“This ain’t working,” he muttered, to which Ignis nodded somberly.

“Indeed. Certainly didn’t expect _this_ much trouble.”

Raising an eyebrow, Gladio focused on regaining his breath and blocking another flurry of attacks as he shot back, “You thought this’d be easy?”

“Hardly,” grunted Ignis while he drove his dagger into one of the tendrils that tried to wrap around his ankle. “I merely didn’t anticipate how determined he would be to keep us away from Noct.”

“You noticed that too, huh?”

“It’s difficult not to.”

Gladio laughed bitterly, watching Prompto destroy another bombardment of daemonic weapons with a healthy spray of bullets before they had a chance to behead the king where he was attempting to drag himself away from the thick of things. His sword was in his hand, and he was still using it to devastating effect even when he couldn’t rise higher than one knee, but Gladio wasn’t at all confident that he’d last long if Ardyn came for him. Lucky for them, he was too focused on killing them all so that King Regis would have the privilege of going last—at least, that was Gladio’s guess.

Whatever he had planned, they needed to finish this, and _fast_. Maybe the mage didn’t have a breaking point, but they sure did.

Cid was dragging, which was no surprise at all: he wasn’t exactly conditioned for this kind of exertion anymore. He wasn’t the only one, although the rest of them were holding up a little better. Prompto was still a bundle of energy, but the frustration etched into his frown of concentration was pretty telling, and Gladio could see the way his father had to throw a bit more of his weight behind his thrusts across the throne room. Even Ignis, steady and stalwart as always, looked a little peaked around the edges. Much as he hated to admit it, Gladio wasn’t feeling much different.

But Ardyn kept going, so they did as well.

“Any bright ideas, Specs?” he grumbled when they finally had a moment’s reprieve—only a moment. As soon as the words left his mouth, the floor rumbled beneath him, and he barely managed to duck out of the way before a black battering ram tore through where he’d been standing.

“One,” Ignis admitted, hurrying around it to join him, “but we’ll need to be quick.”

Snorting, Gladio dryly retorted, “Who d’you think you’re talkin’ to?”

That brought a smirk to Ignis’s face, but it was gone as soon as it appeared. In a split second, the strategist booted his friend out of the driver’s seat so that he could call the shots.

And it was a hell of a shot.

“Divide and conquer,” was the only clue Gladio was going to get as Ignis rushed towards the others where they were keeping Ardyn occupied.

Luckily for him, Gladio didn’t need more than that to get him going. They’d trained together long enough that he could figure out what Ignis meant without asking. That was the golden rule of battle: _know your comrades_. It didn’t always work, and there were moments where unpredictability was sometimes better than the same old same old, but it was a rule Gladio tried to live by as much as possible.

Ignis made it easy—he could project his thoughts with a flick of his wrist and a quirked eyebrow. In this case, he had a lot more to work with than just that. While Cid dropped back to defend the king and Nyx, Ignis took his place, swooping into Ardyn’s reach and effectively drawing his attention away from the others. In the meantime, Gladio sprinted forward with a significant look at his father, who nodded minutely and fell into step beside him.

He was going to take it as a positive sign that Prompto didn’t need to be informed of their strategy in order to join right in. Of course, Gladio had anticipated as much: he must have learned at least _something_ about the art of war in whatever classes he took to be a Niff spy. In some ways, it seemed like he was better at that than the job he’d actually been sent to do. Infiltration units didn’t make friends with their targets, nor did they pander to their targets’ bodyguards. By all accounts, he’d failed miserably—not that Gladio was complaining. If anything, it made their lives a hell of a lot easier in moments like this when they didn’t have the time to teach him how to hold his own against an enemy of Ardyn’s magnitude.

It just so happened that he could do a hell of a lot more than that. Prompto didn’t hesitate for a second when Gladio pointedly lowered his sword so that the tip touched the floor, the flat of his blade aimed upwards. Seeing it for the cue that it was, Prompto leapt right on top of his weapon and put a hand on his shoulder to steady himself.

For a second, anyway.

The next, Gladio was roaring out a ragged cry as he wrenched his greatsword around and launched Prompto straight at Ardyn.

Okay, there was no avoiding it: the kid was pretty damn impressive. Gladio would never say it out loud, especially not when he remembered where it was he had gotten these unexpected skills of his, but he couldn’t exactly deny it. There was no other word for how he used his momentum to flip himself midair, hook his knee around Ardyn’s throat while simultaneously missing Ignis by degrees, and send the mage toppling to the ground without skipping a beat. He wasn’t even _winded_ —Prompto rolled to his feet with professional expertise, rounding on Ardyn with his gun at the ready and his sights set on the latter’s head.

That wasn’t going to fly, though. Not this time. If they were going to do this, then Gladio was going to get a parting shot. It was the least he could claim after everything that had happened, and as Shield to the future king—who _would_ wake up when they killed this bastard—it was his right to cast the blow that cut the Blade down to size. _Both_ Shields had that right.

So, without a word or a glance, he and his father charged forward to drive their swords into Ardyn’s gut together. It wasn’t quite as satisfying when they couldn’t break through the marble floor beneath his spine and pin him to the ground the way Drautos had done to Nyx, but damn, it felt good to see their weapons impaling him where he lay helpless on the ground.

Maybe that was the wrong word to use, though. If there was one thing Ardyn could never be called, it was helpless. The guy had so many contingency plans that Gladio was beginning to think the alphabet couldn’t hold them all. As such, it didn’t seem to bother him at all that he was imitating a hunted voretooth. He took it in stride; even his goddamn laugh was more amused than concerned.

And why shouldn’t it be? He’d been here before, from what Gladio’s father had told him a long time ago when he didn’t understand why someone would come after King Regis and his son, who couldn’t even hold his head up on his own at that point. Human weapons never put a dent in him in the past, so there was no reason for him to think that it would be any different now, with or without the Crystal on his side.

Sure enough, the black blood that dribbled from his mouth when he chuckled could have been invisible for all he appeared to care about it. He didn’t curse them the way Gladio would have expected; he didn’t get up and keep on going. For half a second, Gladio thought he was going to, that he was waiting for them to get complacent and then slaughter them with their own swords. He didn’t, though, raising a hand and holding it out like he was reaching for something none of them could see.

Until they did.

“Noct!”

At Ignis’s shout, Gladio whirled on his heel to find that they were right: Ardyn _did_ have a reason for keeping Noct nearby, and it wasn’t to use him as leverage in the pissing contest he’d never been able to let go. No, whatever that curse was supposed to be, they obviously didn’t know as much about it as they’d thought. If they did, then his heart wouldn’t have damn near stopped when he saw the darkness oozing out of Noct’s pores like he was some kind of sponge that Ardyn was squeezing as tightly as he could. It was so thick that he was unrecognizable, his face as black as his hair and his arms a mottled grey where they were strewn at his sides.

It was in that moment, as he watched the shadows leak out of Noct and slither like snakes towards Ardyn’s outstretched hand, that Gladio knew they were well and truly screwed.

The mage hadn’t cared if they destroyed the Crystal. He hadn’t cared if they stripped away the immortality that had kept him alive and vindictive for so long that people had literally forgotten just how far back his history went. Why would he bother when he’d made his own Crystal in human form? He didn’t need the light or the gods’ blessings when he had a new conduit for whatever it was that kept him going after all this time.

_So much for just sleeping._

For the first time in his life, Gladio did the one thing he swore an oath he never would: he hesitated to do his duty. It seemed like the world stood still except for those tendrils of darkness that trapped Noct in their grotesque embrace and the subtle shifting of Ardyn’s clothes that indicated his wounds were knitting back together. He was a Shield—it was his job to figure out the most effective plan of action and go for it. Mistakes would be made and lives would be lost, but he would always ensure that that of his prince was safeguarded.

How the hell was he supposed to do that when his charge was the problem? How was he supposed to keep Noct safe when the fuel that powered Ardyn’s vengeance literally poured from his body, feeding the process that would see them all in their graves by the end of the night? Their only chance, if it could be called that when they had no guarantee that it would work, was to do something that Gladio couldn’t bring himself to.

The Blade had hurt Noct enough throughout the course of his life. Gladio refused to release him by ending it.

Which meant there was nothing he could do—nothing _any_ of them could do—but watch and accept their imminent defeat. And really, Gladio was okay with that. After all, what would any of them do without Noct?

 

***

 

Wait.

_This was wrong. This was all wrong._

_Noctis shook his head, his hands curling into fists where he had been clutching at his chest in agony that he didn’t_ want _. Maybe he_ had _chosen this path, or maybe he’d just agreed to walk it because it was easier than facing all the things that he never wanted to think about again. Either way, it didn’t have to be like this. It didn’t have to end this way, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that he couldn’t let it._

_In spite of all his arguments to the contrary, Luna had been right. His anger and misery had taken up too much space in his mind and heart to understand that before, but the avalanche of realization came crashing down on him to join the monsters’ weight. How many times had she told him that he could take his fate into his own hands and turn this around? How many times had she implored him not to think of his friends like the traitors that he still sort of felt like they were? He’d convinced himself that she was the Oracle, that she didn’t know enough about the situation from what little he’d told her to really say anything of value on the subject. In fact, it was her job to try to make him feel better: she’d been ordained by the Six, so it wasn’t like she was going to tell him outright that there wasn’t any hope left._

_It hadn’t really occurred to him that she actually_ believed _the advice she’d given him. It hadn’t really occurred to him that he should think about doing the same._

 _But as he drifted there, reflecting on his choice and hating himself for making it, Noctis couldn’t deny it anymore. He couldn’t shove down those feelings or order his heart to stop sending them to his brain when he least expected it. What he_ could _do was welcome the memories and the warmth they brought with them, especially if that was all he got to take with him wherever he was going now._

 _Only he wasn’t going anywhere. He couldn’t—he_ wouldn’t _._

 _Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto… Yeah, they’d betrayed him, lied to him, hurt him deeper than anybody ever could. Remembering who they used to be made his heart ache for the days that they could never go back to, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth that had nothing to do with the blood he spilled when he thought about what had happened on his birthday. His heart felt like it had been torn in two, the glue that had once held it together having grown old and brittle until the slightest rattle had shattered it altogether. That was on them—_ they _had done that._

 _But he missed them. He_ needed _them._

 _Maybe they could never be friends again. Maybe their brotherhood was broken beyond repair and the best they could ever hope for was learning how to be acquaintances—_ coworkers _. He could see it now: they’d spend their days together the way he’d always wanted as a kid, but it would be full of business and training and education that he hadn’t gotten in Hammerhead. Ignis would wake him up in the morning with breakfast and some kind of schedule for the day while Gladio trailed along behind him to ensure that no one tried to murder the crown prince of Lucis. Perhaps he would see Prompto on occasion, if there was time; their friendship wouldn’t be anything more than a shell of what it used to be, though, an imitation of their old selves for the sake of it._

_Noctis figured he was being optimistic to even hope for that much, yet for the first time since he’d discovered their deceit, he didn’t care about any of that. Not knowing the people he’d once called friends didn’t mean anything—he could relearn who they were and discover who they’d been when they weren’t pretending to be someone else. He could find out where he fit with them or whether the jagged edges of their fragile connection would forever keep them from one another._

_He could learn who Prince Noctis was and who they all saw when they looked at him._

_And sure, it would probably hurt. When memories of better, easier times plagued him, it would probably be the kind of agony that rivaled what he was going through now. But he wouldn’t be alone—he’d never_ been _alone._

_With that thought in mind, Noctis did something he hadn’t tried before or after Luna had blessed him with her infinite patience and understanding: he fought back. Where he felt a monster gnawing at his leg, he kicked out a foot to dislodge it; where the elongated claws of a daemon dug into his chest, he swatted at it in frantic determination. It couldn’t end like this, not when he still had so much to say! The guys were waiting for him—Luna was waiting for him—the king was waiting for the son he’d only just gotten back. Noctis couldn’t let them down by giving up when he had even the tiniest scrap of energy with which to fight._

_Try as he might, though, there was no breaking through the wall of darkness that pressed in on him with every outburst. There was no fending off monsters that were invisible to him. For their part, they didn’t care for his newfound resolve: as if they sensed their toy fleeing from their grasp, they doubled down on their efforts to drag him even further into the depths of darkness that he’d been lost in for so long that he could hardly remember the light anymore._

_The harder he resisted, the more they fought._

_The harder he resisted, the more they punished him for it._

_But they didn’t count on that voice returning, its wordless encouragement filtering through their fury and warming Noctis’s soul. He hadn’t been able to figure out what it was saying, yet whenever he heard it, he felt like he’d come_ home _. Sometimes, he didn’t think it was speaking at all—words couldn’t fill him with the emotion that it did. Words didn’t smell like the garage or clap a hand on his shoulder in pride; words didn’t smile and tell you everything would be all right._

_Words were meaningless. This… This was different._

_Without thinking, Noctis reached out a hand and stretched towards that presence in desperation. It had never answered his silent prayers before, remaining as unbearably remote as ever despite the screams of pain and lonely whimpers he would never admit to. After a while, he’d wondered what the use of it was. Had it come to help him or to taunt him with the things he couldn’t have?_

_This time, however, it apparently decided on the former._

_The hands that closed around his were so familiar that he would have known them anywhere. Only Gladio had the kind of calluses that spoke of hard work and his indomitable strength as a protector. Only Ignis wore gloves in the middle of the desert to keep his skin from drying out. Only Prompto could make a simple touch both playful and endearing at the same time._

_Those hands had yanked him upright every time he fell. They’d taught him how to cook when he was pretty sure that was something he never wanted to do if he could help it. They’d knocked game controllers from his fingers so that he wouldn’t win even though they let him half the time anyway._

_They were his friends’ hands. His retainers’ hands. His_ brothers’ _hands. There was no difference._

_And as they pulled him from the depths of Hell, as they drew him up towards the light, a sense of peace filled him so entirely that he didn’t feel the pain anymore. There weren’t any claws or teeth or shadows or daemons or anything that wanted to hurt him now._

_There was only dawn._

***

 

The moments when Regis had been prepared to admit defeat were few. His duty had always kept him from the luxury of capitulating, and as such, he had endured trials that would have crippled men of a lower status. He had seen it before: they buckled under the pressure, retreating into themselves until they were but a shadow of themselves. So much of the time, they were never the same again, yet their families were there to pick up the pieces.

As Regis’s family decayed before his very eyes, he suddenly realized that perhaps defeat was not the worst fate a man could suffer.

Ardyn had made quite certain that the last thing he saw would be that which injured him most. The curse was of no consequence now; his child’s dwindling health meant nothing in light of this violation. It had been simpleminded of him to believe that that was the worst of it, that the mage had nothing more to level at him than a comatose son and a few snide remarks.

He had said it in the past, and it appeared that he would say it at least once more before his end greeted him: his idiocy would be his undoing.

It _had_ been already. There was no other way to interpret the satisfied, triumphant sneer that Ardyn wore as he drained the life from his child. It was a macabre imitation of the seemingly pleasant smiles he had offered when Regis was naïve enough to believe that they were, in fact, partners. Gone was the man who had taught him of the mages and vowed his loyalty until the end of all things—in his place was nothing but a monster, a creature of the night who had stolen his son to use as a receptacle for his own taint.

And it was Regis’s fault. As he sat there, the pain of his impending loss more debilitating than his throbbing leg, he could only dwell on his own role in this disaster. Here, they would perish. Perhaps his subjects would be better off when they did, although he doubted it. While his hopes for their own success had been minimal, he had at least prayed to the Six that he would be able to take Ardyn with him. Eos would be safer without both of them present, after all.

If his son was gone, Regis did not need to live regardless. He did not need the sunlight or the gratification of knowing that he had brought an end to the scourge that had ravaged the world for so many centuries that history had lost count. Without his son, there was nothing left for him but to join his family. They had already waited overlong.

But that paradise was ripped from him with the gurgling choke that sounded from Ardyn’s throat. Suddenly, the fingers of his outstretched hand clawed the air while the other weakly pushed at both Shields’ swords as though he could dislodge them so easily. He could not, and for the first time, Regis noticed that the past was _not_ about to repeat itself. The gaping wounds in the mage’s stomach grew larger, not smaller, and blood seeped into his clothes at an alarming rate.

When their eyes met, it was with a thrill of surprise that Regis recognized an all too human emotion that he hadn’t thought Ardyn capable of in decades.

 _Fear_.

It took a single second for Regis to realize why.

No longer were the tendrils of his unholy exploits trailing towards him across the floor of the throne room. No longer were stems of darkness feeding his anger or propelling his revenge. The shadows evaporated like the rain after a storm, and in the time it took for him to turn towards his son, it was as though the entire world had shifted.

Because Noctis lay helplessly across from him, unconscious yet safe.

It was more than he could say for Ardyn. The gods themselves seemed to have finally deigned to intervene, and the tarlike blood that pooled around him erupted into divine flame that had his retainers leaping backwards to avoid the blaze. They needn’t have bothered: the pyre was fleeting, and in the span of a single breath, it was extinguished.

Nothing remained in its wake.

Oddly enough, Regis felt no fulfilment. The sudden silence was not as light and celebratory as he would have anticipated. Rather, he was filled with a sense of anxious anticipation that hadn’t struck him so quickly since his wife had told him that their prayers for a child had been answered. Ardyn was gone, Eos was liberated, and there was nothing left standing in the way of his son’s awakening.

His involuntary cry of pain when he attempted to drag himself across the chamber drew Cid’s attention, and his old friend hastened to his aid as the others joined them at Noctis’s side. What they found brought him to tears, although it was hardly for the reason that he had expected.

Much as he had the day he’d arrived in Insomnia, Noctis appeared as healthy as ever. The observations Regis had made over the course of the last week were moot, for his son bore none of the signs of Ardyn’s scourge now that it had been wiped from the face of the planet. His pale skin was not colored by a foreboding darkness, nor were his eyes so sunken in his skull that he might have been mistaken for a corpse. When Regis extended a trembling hand to cup his cheek, it was warm and soft under his touch.

But he did not wake.

Ardyn was gone. Eos was liberated.

Noctis still slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to pop in and say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read this story, especially this chapter given how long it is. We have three chapters left to go, and after over 300,000 words, I am absolutely floored by the amazing feedback you guys have left. Thank you so much, and also a very special thank you to [Roguehearted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguehearted/pseuds/roguehearted) for reading through the last two chapters in advance as my very own Quality Control Agent. See you guys next week!


	31. True Love

A week passed with no change.

Okay, maybe not _no_ change. Prompto’s life had turned around completely since they kicked Ardyn’s ass, which was saying something when he’d thought it didn’t get much different than living amongst the Lucians in Hammerhead to begin with. Of course, he was _so_ not complaining: it was always nice to reflect on the fact that his head wasn’t mounted next to Drautos’s somewhere instead of firmly attached to his body where it belonged. (That admittedly wasn’t what had happened to the captain, but hey, he liked the mental image.) Still, he never could have imagined that the king would offer him a permanent position in the Crownsguard, considering… Well, _considering_.

That was what he’d done, though. It took a couple of days, given that he had his own problems to worry about aside from what the hell he was going to do with some Niff kid who had started camping out at the Citadel uninvited, but Prompto was now as official as Ignis and Gladio. Even more surprising was that no one seemed to mind. His history wasn’t exactly a secret anymore; it couldn’t be when he was in King Regis’s employ. They had files on everybody—even their _files_ had files, from the looks of things—and he couldn’t really blame them there, what with the whole Glaive fiasco. It was better to know more about the people working for you than less, no matter how invasive it felt to let them scrape the insides of his brain for information. And honestly, that part hadn’t been too bad: Prompto had managed to keep the worst of his experiences to himself, although he was ready to come clean if that was what it took to stay. What he’d already given the marshal during his required investigatory interview was definitely more than enough to keep their heads spinning for a while as it was, so he was glad it hadn’t come to that just yet.

With all the information he _had_ provided about his past, however, he would have at least expected to be shunned by the rest of the Crownsguard on the spot. They had absolutely no reason to trust him and every right to side-eye him like the outsider he was. Unlike Ignis and Gladio, he hadn’t fought _with_ them instead of _against_ them; he hadn’t gotten a chance to show them firsthand how dedicated he was to doing the right thing now that he could. Sheesh, even those two weren’t totally comfortable around him despite that stuff, although he couldn’t always tell whether that was _him_ or merely the situation they’d landed in. Sure, their interactions were a lot better than before, but they had their awkward moments. Those were usually the instances where they accidentally fell back into old habits and treated each other the way they used to, which… It was nice, but it didn’t _feel_ right. They were still missing something vital, and the awareness of its absence had them walking on eggshells more of the time than he cared to admit. If it was like that with people he’d known this long, he never in a million years would have dreamed that anyone else would accept someone like him into their midst, helping Noct and averting global catastrophe notwithstanding. The good he’d done wouldn’t cancel out the bad, and he’d been completely prepared to sleep with one eye open for the next couple of decades just to be safe.

So far, that hadn’t happened. Prompto could walk the halls of the Citadel without needing to worry that anybody besides Gladio was about to grab him and dunk his head in a toilet or something. He doubted the big guy would bother, but Noct’s Shield never _had_ gotten around to exacting his revenge, so Prompto wasn’t going to discount it as a possibility. If Gladio did decide on a fitting punishment, though, odds were that it wouldn’t be as benign as a simple swirlie. Luckily, it also couldn’t be devastating enough to keep him from doing his new duty, either.

_Such a shame._

It was still so weird to think of it that way. For as unexpected a pleasure as the king’s protection and favor had been to receive, he had to say that both were a hell of a lot more than he deserved. When King Regis had called him to the throne room two days after the battle that had turned it into a construction worker’s paradise, he’d been mentally preparing himself for the worst. There was no way he’d get off without _some_ kind of penalty after his betrayal, right? Selling out Noct to Ardyn for his own freedom was hitting below the belt, especially when he’d been too big a coward to tell someone when he’d realized he couldn’t go through with it anymore. The king had every right to hate him; he had every reason to remove him from Insomnia and tell him that he wasn’t allowed to see Noct ever again, awake or asleep. To be honest, it wouldn’t have surprised him for a second if King Regis banished him from the kingdom as a whole.

Instead, he’d expressed his gratitude. He’d literally stood from his throne, walked down the stairs (using the brand new cane he couldn’t go anywhere without—doctor’s orders), and put his hand on Prompto’s shoulder to look him in the eye as he thanked him for everything he’d done.

He was assuming that didn’t include the stuff he’d done _before_ Ardyn dragged him back to Niflheim.

The real kicker? It was King Regis, not the emperor or the Blade or anyone else, who had offered him the one thing he’d come to Lucis for in the first place: _his freedom_.

And he hadn’t accepted it.

“With…all due respect, Y-Your Majesty,” Prompto had stuttered, positive that he was going to be thrown out for it but pressing on regardless, “I just… I’d like t-to… I’d like to stay?”

“Stay?” the king had parroted with a perplexed frown.

His lack of outright anger had bolstered Prompto’s courage, and he’d stood a little straighter when he explained, “I want to help protect Noct. If, uh… If that’s okay.”

For a second, he hadn’t been able to tell what King Regis was thinking, so many different emotions flitted through his eyes in rapid succession. Over his shoulder, Prompto had watched the marshal and the king’s Shield exchange a glance that he was too afraid to interpret as _impressed_ even a few days later. What would they find impressive about _him_? Sure, he was well trained; he was more than capable in battle or as a spy. His past meant that he was versatile enough to perform whatever task they required of him, whether it meant traveling to the ends of the earth or just standing in the corridor making sure nobody suspicious wandered by. All things considered, he was the perfect tool, even though he would _never_ let anyone call him that again. They couldn’t have been impressed with his desire to mooch off King Regis in the name of looking out for Noct when the other stuff was far more valuable to them.

But they were, and so was the king.

“If that is your decision, then I have an offer for you, Prompto Argentum,” he had replied easily, without even a _tiny_ bit of irritation that his gift had been unceremoniously shoved back in his face. There was no berating Prompto for not taking what he was given and being grateful for it. There was no saying that someone like _him_ wasn’t welcome at the Citadel let alone within two feet of Noct.

There was just a proposal to join the Crownsguard and receive one of the highest accolades of the Lucians military in repayment for his services against Ardyn.

If three very intimidating pairs of eyes hadn’t been scrutinizing him in anticipation of his answer, he might have passed out a little. Not totally, but a little.

Needless to say, he’d jumped at the opportunity and assured the king that he wouldn’t regret his decision—and he _wouldn’t_. Not if Prompto had anything to say about it. The smile he’d earned for his enthusiasm, although it was tired and more concerned than any father should have had to be, was heartening. It kept him from worrying about whether that whole meeting had been some kind of test or whether he’d passed it when he retreated to Noct’s apartment afterward with a grin on his face and a spring in his step. Not even Gladio’s surly grunt of greeting or Ignis’s solemn expression where he had been fussing with Noct’s blankets were enough to bring him down.

It had been a few days since then, though, and his initial contentment with the turn things had taken was beginning to wear off the longer he spent wondering what they were going to do about his comatose best friend.

At least he wasn’t the only one, not that that was much comfort. He could tell from the gradual fraying of Ignis’s nerves that he was just as concerned, if not more so, about the fact that they were rapidly running out of options. After all, his brain was bigger than half of Lucis and definitely had more going for it—if he couldn’t figure this out, then none of them stood a chance. It wasn’t for lack of trying: the only time he left Noct’s side was when King Regis came to spend the night on the sofa in the living room (his doctors said his leg would only get worse if he slept in the armchair he usually drew up beside the bed, and while the couch wasn’t the best choice, it was also a decent enough compromise for now), but that didn’t mean Ignis went to sleep. Oh, no. Nope, that was his cue to head to the Citadel’s library, where there were books about _everything_ from history to science to what some old king did with a booger he picked right after Solheim fell. Seriously, the amount of information in that place would have been disgusting if Prompto didn’t get the point—someone had to keep all the records of what went on in the kingdom, even the minutia that he absolutely did _not_ want to know about.

Ignis, on the other hand, was rabid for that sort of stuff. He spent every evening poring over anything he could think of that might give them a cure for what had to be the longest nap in the history of sleeping. He never found one, as far as Prompto could tell, but that didn’t dissuade him from going back again and again as if he’d catch something new the tenth time around. Honestly, it was more than a tad on the neurotic side.

It wasn’t just Prompto who had begun to take note of the pretty unhealthy complex Ignis was developing, either. He’d been a party to about three snark-fests in as many days, none of which ever ended well. Something about Gladio telling him he should give it up didn’t sit right with Ignis, who promptly told _him_ where he could shove it and went about his business anyway. Prompto hadn’t thought that anyone could perfect the art of condescending page-turning, but he’d been proven wrong on more than one occasion. It would have been impressive under any other circumstances. Now, though? All it seemed to accomplish was riling Gladio up until he had nothing better to do than stomp back to his usual corner with a huff and not talk to them for a few hours—or Prompto, at least. Ignis’s nose was usually shoved into his research by that point.  

That wasn’t to say that Noct’s Shield had taken his own advice, of course. Although he wasn’t actively searching for solutions like Ignis and about half the retainers in the Citadel (Prompto felt kind of guilty about eavesdropping on the king and the marshal, but what did they expect when they said stuff like that where he could hear it?), he’d paved his own route to doing what he thought was best—namely, never leaving Noct. _Ever_. The furthest he generally went was the bedroom door, and that was only if King Regis was inside. The guy wasn’t callous enough to try to sit in there during father-son time, or what passed for it; in spite of Prompto’s prior assumptions, he _did_ have a heart under those rippling muscles of his. It even worked, too. The second the king appeared, he’d disconnect himself from the wall by the window and step outside to give them some space. He never shut the door, nor did he move even a foot away from it, but he stayed out of sight to offer the illusion of privacy. Admittedly, his father tended to do the same, so it hadn’t been difficult to figure out where he got it from.

King Regis, who he was coming to admire more and more by the second, never said anything about it. Then again, he didn’t really say anything at all most days. They could go hours where they heard nothing from him but a telltale grunt when he stood, still getting used to the brace that was keeping his leg from giving out beneath him. Sometimes, they’d catch him whispering to Noct about this or that, although Prompto always tried to find something else to focus on so that he didn’t invade the bubble that was reserved just for them. It was as close as they could get to an actual relationship, after all, especially when Noct had no idea his own father was there, waiting for him to wake up. That would have been a touching thought if the latter was an actual possibility, but the longer they spent like this, the more Prompto had to push himself to believe that these quiet nights and agonizing days would pay off with what they were all desperately hoping for.

Until then, they couldn’t stay that way forever, no matter how much they wanted to. When duty called, it was like watching a candle get snuffed out, and King Regis would deflate a little before he was able to shore up his resolve as he knew he had to. It had gotten to the point where, if it weren’t for Lady Lunafreya, Prompto wondered if he would have just planted himself next to Noct’s bed like a tree and refused to move.

_No, it’s Luna_ , he reminded himself with a sigh as he kicked idly at the corner of the couch. The former Oracle had made it pretty clear from the beginning that she didn’t want to go by her title when they weren’t in some kind of formal setting. Given that they were all crammed into Noct’s living room like a bunch of mourners half the time, they’d been subjected to a good number of glares for insisting on trying her patience only to get the same response.

Prompto was positive that Gladio still used her full name purely to tick her off, but Ignis refused to be defeated on principle alone. More than once, he had considered taking bets on who would cave first—and he had a feeling it wouldn’t be Luna.

Honestly, he considered it a miracle that she’d stuck around at all. If she still had her powers, then he would have asked if she could do something about Noct, but that was so not going to happen. For one thing, she didn’t; for another, he’d heard enough of the story now to know that mages couldn’t interfere and all that crap. What kind of stupid rule was that, anyway? Some gods the Six were if they never imagined that one of their servants would have the guts to go against them. Humanity was kind of riding on it, after all.

Unlike them, Luna didn’t have to stand around reflecting on just how worthless she was, though. He would have thought she’d ditch out and head back to Tenebrae, in that case: her brother would be waiting for her if he wasn’t still tied up in that caravan. (He wasn’t—Ignis had called to check.) But for some reason, she’d decided to stay, even going so far as to offer words of comfort to the king when he was looking particularly down. They never helped, of course—nothing could when the son you never really got a chance to know wasn’t ever going to wake up. In spite of that, she was a ray of sunshine to all of them. She’d been the one to coax King Regis away from Noct’s side to do his job when he was reluctant; she’d been the one to remind him that if he didn’t take care of his leg, it wouldn’t take care of him. She’d been the one to point out that Gladio didn’t need to keep such a stiff upper lip and that Ignis could stand to take a night off from the library to get some actual sleep.

She’d been the one to tell Prompto his past wasn’t what defined him. He knew that—sure, he knew that. But… Well, it was just nice to hear from someone who was bold enough to say it outright. Nobody else seemed prepared to address the behemoth in the room when it came to the boat he’d sailed in on, but she’d charged right into the subject no matter how uncomfortable it had made him at the time. He could appreciate that.

The one person who couldn’t was Cid, to absolutely no one’s surprise. While Luna had been quick to tell the king that he couldn’t wait forever to rule his kingdom, it looked like Cid planned to do exactly that when it came to the garage. Of course, Cindy was taking care of it while he was away, which was no hardship: she’d been working there so long that she was more than capable of keeping it going without his daily phone calls. Even if she wasn’t, Prompto doubted the old dude would head back so quickly. After all, he’d _raised_ Noct—there was no way he’d wipe his hands clean of him that easily, especially given his _condition_ , as Ignis called it.

There was one thing about Cid that Prompto had learned over the years, however: he was loyal to a fault, but when handed an emotional situation, he wasn’t always sure what to do with it. He and Gladio were a lot alike that way, although they had _very_ different methods of handling their grief now that it was practically their natural state of being. Where Gladio stood stoically in Noct’s room day in and day out, his expression even more severe with that long scar stretching from his forehead down to his jaw (courtesy of Drautos), Cid didn’t visit. _At all._ Most of his days were spent accompanying King Regis or Cor, whoever could find something for him to do that would make him feel more useful than they did. Over the course of the week, he’d toured the city to jog memories of the place that had grown rusty with age, inspected the royal garage to make sure the king’s cars were all up to snuff, and squirmed his way through some of the old portraits of him that hung in one of the galleries in remembrance of King Regis’s most trusted retainers. Prompto hadn’t really gotten around to asking him about his past just yet, but he could tell why that place bothered him the most—it had to sting to be considered that highly and still have failed so miserably.

As terrible as he knew it sounded, that was sort of why Prompto would have guessed he’d go home when they found out that Noct wasn’t going to wake up as easily as they’d thought. It wasn’t that he believed Cid didn’t care—he’d been around long enough to see that that wasn’t true! He simply cared so much that the other floors of the Citadel were as close as he’d gotten to Noct since they’d brought him back to his room and let the doctor treat the broken arm he’d sustained when Ardyn shoved him off his pedestal. The futility of it all had to take a toll, especially if you didn’t have anything to keep you occupied. At least Prompto could fall back on orders, which were familiar even if they came from a different commander now. Standing guard over Noct was his _job_ , as was helping Ignis sort through mountains of information that meant absolutely nothing to Prompto no matter how long he spent staring at them. Meanwhile, Cid was drifting: he wouldn’t go back to Hammerhead, but he haunted Insomnia like a ghost.

According to Ignis, that wasn’t too unexpected. This wasn’t like the time Noct had gotten attacked by a daemon, which Prompto still shuddered to think about even though he hadn’t been there. Back then, it had been a matter of waiting for things to get better, of waiting for Noct to wake up so that they could try to make him eat or normal stuff like that. This was different. This was _worse_. If it wasn’t, then maybe they’d all feel like they could actually accomplish something for a change instead of merely shifting and pacing and _staring_ only for nothing to happen. For someone like Cid, who hadn’t gone a day in his life without being of use to _someone_ , Prompto could only imagine how it killed him on the inside to just watch Noct sleep when he couldn’t do anything about it.

That was what the doctors said, at least. Noct was healthy. Aside from the cast around his right forearm, he was in perfect condition. Just…sleeping.

So, yeah. A week had gone by, and…nothing. Prompto had gotten fitted for a nifty Crownsguard uniform of his own, everyone had stood around biting their nails in anxious anticipation, and Noct showed no signs of waking anytime soon. Or… _ever_.

Maybe that was why he finally pulled together the courage to walk into the bedroom that afternoon and calmly ask Gladio, “Can I have a minute?”

An immeasurable moment passed with no response forthcoming. It wasn’t that the Shield hadn’t heard him—the vaguely unwilling (if things weren’t so dire, he’d have called it constipated, but whatever) expression on his face would have had Prompto walking out the door a couple of weeks ago. Now, in his new duds and with the authority of the king backing him almost as fully as Gladio, he held his ground. The chances of him getting punched for a simple request weren’t as high as they had been in Gralea, after all, so why bother?

While he wouldn’t say that they had completely repaired the trust Prompto had shattered when his Tenebrae story fell through, they also hadn’t gotten into any more shouting matches, which could only be a good thing. Whether his anger had cooled or he simply didn’t think that Prompto would try to hurt Noct anymore, Gladio hadn’t kept up the outright hostility that he’d been using as his primary method of interaction after they had sprung him from Zegnautus. As a result, the silences that did stretch between them weren’t quite so awkward and had more to do with the somber atmosphere in the apartment than anything else. On the couple of occasions when the king remembered to order Gladio to leave long enough to get dinner, Prompto had even been invited to eat with him and Ignis before heading to his brand new, swanky accommodations right inside the Citadel. They weren’t exactly the most talkative bunch, but he would venture to say that the quiet was companionable. Mostly.

_This_ silence, however, was stifling. It finally got to the point where Prompto was about to repeat his question when Gladio deigned to answer, if that was what he could call the noncommittal grunt he received by way of reply. He assumed it was a grunt of assent, though, seeing as the Shield cast a hesitant glance towards the bed before shuffling out the door without a word.

He didn’t go far—no surprise there. Prompto could still spy his shoulder beside the doorframe when he tentatively perched on the edge of Noct’s mattress, rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to come up with the words he really should have said a long time ago. It wasn’t like he had to work at it: he’d been thinking about them for days, so he already knew exactly what he wanted to say. Actually _speaking_ them was the part that got him jumbled up. Even after all these years, his brain was still telling him that this wasn’t information he was supposed to give out. Infiltration units were meant to be mirrors, receptacles for their targets to deposit whatever they wanted so that they would see who they required the units to be, not what they truly were. They didn’t need a past or a history for themselves—they just needed to smile and nod.

But smiling and nodding only went so far, and if Prompto had to keep holding it all in, he was going to explode. Even though Noct wasn’t awake to hear him the way he both did and totally did _not_ want, that didn’t mean he was off the hook. If anything, it gave him that much more incentive to come clean, especially when _this_ might be all the opportunity he was going to get.

And the king was going to be here in a couple of hours, so it would probably be better if he got everything off his chest _before_ that. Even if he had to do it with Carbuncle watching from his perch beside Noct’s pillow and Ignis and Gladio listening outside.

_Oh, boy… Well. No time like the present._

Clearing his throat, Prompto closed his eyes and tried to imagine that this was no different than usual. They were just sitting in one of the booths at Takka’s after Noct got off work, sharing a plate of fries and complaining about the new game that they couldn’t seem to beat while Ignis had ages ago. There was a lull in the conversation where they were simply staring out the window at a sandstorm as it rolled in, which gave him the perfect opening. No mages, no curses, no obnoxiously overprotective bodyguards—only him and Noct and the secret he never should have kept. Yeah, that was it.

With that mental image firmly planted in his head, he chuckled nervously and began, “So, uh… Guess we’ve got a lot to talk about, huh, buddy?”

No answer. Shocker.

“I’m… I’m in the Crownsguard now?” Wincing, Prompto shook his head and amended more firmly, “I mean, I’m in the _Crownsguard_ now. Got the uniform and everything. There’s even, like, this badge thing Cor gave me to make it official. It’s totally like _King’s Knight_ —can you believe it? …Well, I, uh… I guess you can’t.”

Prompto grimaced at himself with a sigh. Rambling about the last week really wasn’t what he’d had in mind when he walked in here, but this was turning out to be a lot harder than he’d thought. What the hell was he even trying to make small talk for? It wasn’t like Noct was going to answer! He wasn’t in a position to judge anyway, even if he could somehow hear Prompto from the depths of Snoozeville or wherever he was living these days. There was nothing to lose by just coming right out and saying whatever he wanted. Then again, maybe that wasn’t quite true. The _actual_ worst that could happen was that Gladio would tear back in here, grab him by the collar, and throw him out the window. They were thick, but he had no doubt that the Shield could do it if he put his mind to it.

How he and Ignis took his confession wasn’t important, though. Right now, they weren’t his priority, and there was no point in pulling his punches when he wouldn’t have to bear the brunt of Noct’s disappointment immediately afterward regardless.

Besides, it was _Noct_.

So, this time, he cut straight to the chase when he muttered, “I… What I’m trying to say is…that I owe you an apology. There’s a lot of stuff that I never told you. I just figured there was no way you’d accept me for _me_ if you knew. And I totally wouldn’t blame you. Pretty sure your dad would’ve had me dragged into the Citadel for questioning before I could say much, so that…probably doesn’t matter.”

Pausing, Prompto registered for the first time just how _quiet_ it was in the apartment. It was like everything was standing still; even Carbuncle didn’t seem to be breathing. He wasn’t optimistic enough to think that it was his own imagination playing tricks on him, though. No, he was painfully aware of the two other pairs of ears waiting right outside the room to listen in on this particular, overdue conversation. Not that he minded—they had a right to know after all this time.

Instead of making it more difficult to put his thoughts into words, that realization seemed to unplug whatever had been stopping up his system, and he opened his eyes to smile sadly at Noct where he definitely wasn’t noticing the same thing Prompto was.

“I didn’t have friends where I came from. There were other units like me, but we didn’t really know each other. There…wasn’t much to know? It’s kinda complicated. Anyway, the whole point of the facility was to teach us how to infiltrate places of power and bring them down from the inside. Part of our training was spying on each other to get some practice, so it was a dumb idea to get attached to anyone. They’d just sell you out with whatever dirt they could dig up. If you couldn’t hold your own, or if you took a wrong turn somewhere and they found out about it? You were retired early. Trust me, _nobody_ wanted to get retired early,” he added with a humorless chuckle. His instructors never told them what happened to the ones who did, but they weren’t stupid—if you had to ask, you didn’t want to know. All they could be certain of was that they weren’t allowed to go free.

If Prompto had been smart about it, then he would have realized that he’d been more likely to find himself facing _retirement_ than freedom after he upheld his end of Ardyn’s bargain. Chalking it up to optimism was all well and good—if he was talking about anything else. Missing something _that_ huge? Maybe he hadn’t done as well in his training as he’d thought.

That wasn’t what he was trying to say, though, nor was he here to spin his own sob story and make excuses. This had nothing to do with him and everything to do with _Noct_.

So, getting himself back on track, he continued, “Anyway, yeah, not the nicest place in the world. But Lucis? I never thought it would be like this. Seriously, they taught us you guys were a bunch of monsters who didn’t know how to do _anything_. It was always, _Lucians are so lazy_ , or _Lucians let everyone do whatever they want_. The way they talked, it made the emperor look like some kinda hero. He kept everybody in line and made sure we had everything we needed. He was a _true_ patriot.”

Prompto scoffed, rolling his eyes at his own imitation of his instructors’ blind praise for the guy who let Ardyn totally destroy a perfectly decent… Actually, you know what? Scratch that—Niflheim was garbage. They could take their military and their nasty excuse for food and their ignorant people who would look the other way before they saw something that might make them choose a side and shove it. Ardyn hadn’t done that; his desire for revenge hadn’t brought them to that point. Nobody had forced their government to take advantage of their people, just like nobody had forced the people to swallow it when they should have done what Prompto was doing now— _the right thing._ Despite how unnatural it felt, he refused to defend what he knew was wrong now that he’d lived something better. The empire had destroyed how many lives while their people let them without argument? Prompto didn’t even want to think about it, yet there were plenty of moments where it consumed his conscience to remember that his instructors had been part of the problem and so had he.  

If only he’d figured that out five years earlier.

“When I first got to Lucis,” he hurried to continue before he had a chance to go any further down that road, “I thought you were going to be everything they said you would be. Lazy, arrogant, selfish… I mean, that was all I’d ever known. Then they told me I needed to just take pictures of some Lucian prince, and I didn’t really think about it. My job wasn’t to think—it was to follow orders. So…I did. And I was so, _so_ beyond wrong. By the time I found out that you were nothing like what I’d pictured, it was too late. Ardyn already had what he wanted. I… _I_ was the one who delivered it to him.”

Pulling in a deep and tremulous breath, Prompto unconsciously reached out to grab Noct’s hand as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I betrayed your trust when all you ever did was accept me for who I was. Uh… Well, who you _thought_ I was. I should’ve told you, and I _didn’t_. That’s on me. But… You’re my best friend, Noct. I just… I hope you’ll… I hope you’ll let me try to make it up to you. I’ll do anything. Seriously, man— _anything_. Like, no fries for a year, _anything_. So… So, wake up,” he pleaded. He hadn’t meant to say that, but he couldn’t stop himself as the words poured from his mouth. “ _Please_ wake up. I can’t make this right if you sleep through everything, buddy. You gotta tell me, ‘cause I don’t know what you want me to do here.”

Apparently, neither did Noct, because he didn’t so much as stir even when Prompto gripped his hand so tightly that it would have hurt if he was awake. But he wasn’t. He just lay there, needles poking his arm where his lunch was seeping into his veins and looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. For all Prompto could tell, he didn’t. The truth, the lies, the consequences—they were his own burdens to bear, along with whatever else Noct couldn’t right now.

And wasn’t that a good thing? His best friend didn’t have to deal with reality—he didn’t have to put up with knowing that yet another person he’d trusted turned out to be a spy or figuring out how he was going to repair his relationship with Ignis and Gladio. (From what they’d told him, that revelation hadn’t gone over well, and that was putting it nicely.) Like this, he could escape for a while. Like this, he could simply sleep it off and not tolerate their bullshit.

Which meant it was their job to do it for him. He was, after all, their liege.

Liege in training. Mini liege? Was that a thing? He was pretty sure that was a thing, just like he was pretty sure that you kissed the rings of your lieges (or mini lieges) to pledge your loyalty to them forever. King Regis hadn’t been wearing one in the throne room when he’d offered Prompto a spot in the Crownsguard, but Prompto couldn’t say he was too broken up about it. Kissing the king’s hand would have been beyond awkward, pledges and promises notwithstanding, whereas Noct was his friend. Maybe he wouldn’t agree after he eventually met the _real_ him, but that was how Prompto saw it.

And it just so happened that the royal family’s heirloom was busy adorning _Noct’s_ finger instead of his father’s.

_Well. That’s convenient._

“I’m gonna be right here, Noct,” he murmured as solemnly as he could manage when his sadness was threatening to steal his voice. Those old instincts were good for something, at least, and he managed to hold his head up high as he swore, “I’ll be here. Ever at your side.”

Nodding resolutely in spite of the fact that his best friend—his _prince_ —couldn’t see it, Prompto raised Noct’s hand to his lips and kissed the Ring of the Lucii where it sat idly on his finger. It didn’t matter that Carbuncle’s eyes were still on him or that he was pretty sure Gladio’s were by now as well. His audience wasn’t important.

His vow _was_.

And hey, the tiny jewel inside the ring seemed to wink at him in encouragement where it caught the sunlight. He could take that as a good sign.

 

***

 

Two weeks passed with no change.

And Ignis was spending yet another evening sequestered in the library with little hope of finding what he had been looking for since they had felled Ardyn.

Sighing heavily, he leaned back in his seat and removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose in mingled irritation and exhaustion. Contrary to what Gladio seemed to believe, he _was_ cognizant that this was not the most productive way to spend his time or, indeed, the healthiest manner of coping. With the exception of a few hastily eaten meals or the occasional and accidental doze, Ignis had been a constant presence either in Noct’s apartment or the library since they had returned. Those were the only two places where he was of use, however, so he refused to allow the voice of reason in the depths of his consciousness to convince him that he should do otherwise just yet.

Well, he preferred to say that he was of use, but there was no denying the simple truth that there was nothing he could do much of the time. From the moment he entered Noct’s room in the morning until he left with the coming of the king, he found himself doing very little. There was checking the intravenous solutions that kept Noct healthy and ensuring that he was warm enough; there was providing food for Carbuncle, who appeared content to behave like a cat now that he had retired to a peaceful, unremarkable life. Beyond that, Ignis whiled away the hours on his phone, hunting through documents he’d requested from Talcott in an effort not to sit idly when he could otherwise be seeking answers.

Answers that evaded him at every turn.

It didn’t seem to matter where he looked—the result was always the same. Anything that appeared to be of any value whatsoever, anything that showed so much as an ounce of potential turned out to be woefully lacking in terms of actual information. There were no books about curses or vengeful mages, so most of his search was based in guesswork and assumptions. That meant poring over religious texts, diagrams of artifacts whose names he could neither pronounce nor understand for the nonsensical explanations provided by the Lucians of old, and political dialogues that were both terribly boring by anyone’s standards and utterly worthless to him. Certainly, the data was of use to someone; that was why it had been saved besides mere posterity. To Ignis, however, it was nothing. Actually, it was _less_ than nothing, which he never would have thought possible before now. Information was key, after all. Knowledge was the greatest weapon any mortal could ever hope to receive or wield, and few managed to do the latter effectively. Kings and countries, populations and empires had risen and fallen by the stroke of a pen. When he was younger, Ignis had therefore considered it his solemn duty to read as much as he possibly could so that Noct wouldn’t have to. He would be free to lead while his faithful advisor provided him with the theoretical might he required to reign for many decades to come.

Yet that future would be extinguished if he could not find _something_ in these books to help them to that end. It wasn’t even a matter of the Citadel’s extensive collection somehow not housing what he needed that vexed him— _no one_ in Lucis or abroad was in possession of what he sought. Gladio did not need to know that that was also how he had been spending his time, but Ignis had contacted every major nation the world over in search of anything that might deliver insight. Each one, without fail, had turned up nothing.

Altissia was hardly a contender, which he had been aware of going in, and he had chosen to call upon the First Secretary’s aides purely as a last-ditch effort to ensure that no stone was left unturned. Theirs was an old nation in spite of their isolation from much of the rest of Eos, so he hadn’t been willing to risk ignoring a potentially valuable possibility due to his own meager suppositions. Either his hopes had been misplaced, or he simply hadn’t offered enough information for them to glean more than the vaguest sense of what he was looking for, because their response had been of no use. According to the finest minds Altissia had on hand, the mages did not feature prominently in their political libraries or religious databases; they were not endowed with the history that Lucis had with the messengers of the Six, so the majority of their knowledge had been passed on by other nations. Without knowing more about his interests, they had been unable to help.

The same could be said for Tenebrae, although Ignis admittedly had little to go on besides what he was able to gather from Lady Lunafreya. What with the present state of affairs and the rather nasty beating Ravus had taken at Ravatogh, Ignis hadn’t held out much hope that he would be willing to help, nor had he wanted to alert the foreign king to Noct’s ongoing condition now that he and King Regis were the sole bearers of the former’s ire. It would not have been difficult to predict that that was the purpose for his inquiry; as with their other neighbors across the sea, there was absolutely no reason to openly discuss it or invite unwanted questions. That was for the king to divulge if he chose, and Ignis was not so bold as to overstep his bounds despite how he already toed the line in his quest. As such, he had gone to the former Oracle only to determine that she was as much help as anyone else. According to their esteemed guest, the power of the gods never would have allowed the curse Ardyn had placed on Noct to exist—it flew in the face of all they stood for and, as such, was clearly a product of the selfsame darkness that had so easily corrupted the Blade to begin with. Whatever he had done, it originated from a power that they could not understand, not with the information they had available to them. No one, as far as Ignis had been able to discern, had written about the scourge that had plagued Eos by Ardyn’s hand. Given his own lack of knowledge, he doubted anyone ever would.

No, it was becoming increasingly obvious that any possible insights into the curse itself had died with Ardyn. If they hadn’t, then they were hidden somewhere in the bowels of Zegnautus Keep or the Pitioss ruins where he had once held court, unlikely to see the light of day again. Even those were barely viable options: why would Ardyn retain anything that might thwart his plans or provide potentially threatening information to his enemies? Such carelessness was beneath the Blade, especially after innumerable decades—presumably _centuries_ —of existence.

Which left Ignis with a bit of a conundrum on his hands: how the bloody hell were they supposed to wake Noct when they had exhausted all their options and intelligence?

It was a question that had plagued him every moment since they’d discovered that killing Ardyn would not be enough. Asleep or awake, it did not matter—everything they knew and everything they didn’t raced through his head with alarming swiftness. In daylight, Ignis was constantly trapped in a corner of his mind where he could quietly analyze the data he was pouring into it; in the few hours that he did sleep, frequently with his head on the table in the library rather than a pillow in his own bedroom, he dreamt of all that he had not been able to achieve. Saving Noct from this fate, extracting an answer from Ardyn before he expired, saying what needed to be said before it was too late…

Well, hindsight and all that.

Fortunately, he could dwell on that later. For now, his phone’s shrill alarm startled him from his thoughts, and Ignis reached out to silence it as he absentmindedly piled the books he’d been using one on top of the other. He wasn’t sure how he had missed the sun rising above the windowsills or the way light filtered through the stacks, illuminating the flecks of dust that floated in the air around him, but it appeared that day had broken quite without his knowledge. Despite the persistent itch of his dry eyes, it felt as though he had just gotten here and that the night had melted away in a flash for a new day to dawn.

Time was such a fickle mistress. When they were children, it had slipped by so slowly that they hardly realized it most days; now, however, it vanished without a trace until Ignis often wondered if the clock could truly be trusted. Could it not see that with every passing hour, their hopes dwindled even further than before? Could it not see that with every passing hour, he came one step closer to the moment when he would be forced to return to his daily routine as though there was nothing wrong? So far, he had not been summoned for the tasks he was ordinarily expected to perform, whether as Noct’s advisor or otherwise. That was the reason why he could spend each night in the library and only leave when it was time for him to remind the king that he needed to attend his physical rehabilitation sessions. (Perhaps that was overstating things: he _did_ remind him, but he certainly needn’t have bothered. Master Clarus would not let him forget, nor would the former Oracle.) Eventually, his bittersweet imitation of freedom would end. The understanding of his colleagues would dwindle, and he would have to leave Noct’s side to manage other matters. When that happened, who would take up the gauntlet? Who would fight the battle that had no swords, that had no weapons but those which existed in the cavity between their ears?

No one. No one would, and Ignis would be damned if he allowed that to happen.

The instant they let this tragedy become commonplace and Noct’s condition become the new normal was the instant they admitted defeat. It would be over then, and there would be nothing any of them could do about it but watch their prince rot when he should have had his whole life ahead of him.

That was the part that Ignis couldn’t shake from his mind whenever he left the library, and today was no different. As he hurried up to his own apartment to shower and change clothes, his heart ached at the thought that this was it. If he failed, if he could not find what he was searching for, then Noct would essentially die at the age of _twenty_ —a man in number yet still a boy in every other sense. He’d barely had a chance to live, cloistered as he had been at the outpost. Indeed, he had not known that himself; it was difficult to fathom the scale of available possibilities in a situation like his. Noct had not been upset about that, though. While he had spent their childhood pretending to be a treasure hunter and going on adventures in his mind if not in body, not once had he intimated that he was displeased with his lot. As far as he was aware, his life had been dull yet safe and happy all the same.

Until they had destroyed his illusions with unfortunate truths and traitorous lies.

That was the last thing he’d registered. It was what he had taken with him when he left his apartment and waltzed straight into the hands of destiny: everyone he knew had lied to him. When he’d met his fate, he had done so believing that he was alone in the world. Ignis did not need to hear him say it to know that it was true. After all, there were times when he believed he might have understood Noct’s mind better than anyone else. For as sensible and compassionate as he could be, his heart ruled his head; emotion clouded his judgment and made him irrational if Ignis wasn’t there to provide a filter for his thoughts. They had spoken about it in the past, as it was Ignis’s job to temper that flame of passion within him that could potentially lead him astray as a ruler. It had never worked, though, and Noct remained an ever-faithful disciple of his own sentiment.

Perhaps that was why Ignis refused to give up, or maybe he was simply foolish enough to believe that what he was doing could change something when the gravity of the situation pointed in the opposite direction. Even so, if it was within his power, he would not allow Noct’s final memories to be of their betrayal. He would not, as far as he was able, lose his brother without assuring him that he was not so alone as he had thought.

Ignis _would_ set this right. It was merely a matter of when and _how_.

For the time being, he had no recourse but to straighten his shoulders in his bathroom mirror, don his most encouraging expression, and return to Noct’s apartment. Even if his duty did not require it, he could think of no other place he’d rather be.

The king, it seemed, was of the same mind. He had already risen and eaten by the time Ignis walked through the door, but he was no closer to leaving than he would have been if that weren’t the case. Ignis could relate, albeit in a vastly different way. His own pain was undoubtedly far less than King Regis’s, after all: he could only imagine what it must be like to have met his son but once before seeing him snatched away yet again. At the very least, Ignis had been able to spend a fairly substantial amount of time with Noct over the years; they had grown up together, even if many of their conversations had occurred in absentia and the hours where they spoke on the phone outweighed their personal encounters. At the end of the day, in spite of what they had gone through before the curse took effect, Ignis could honestly say that he _knew_ Noct in a manner that the king did not. The prince’s presence had impacted his life so greatly that Ignis could feel his loss with every step and breath he took.

But two weeks was no time at all when King Regis had harbored a hollow in his heart where Noct should have been for nearly twenty years with no relief. In the moment that he should have been offered reprieve, the moment where his son should have returned to him, that chasm had only grown wider.

Was it so wrong, then, for him to desire to remain at Noct’s side for as long as possible with the rest of them? Was it so wrong for him to hobble into his son’s room, cane in hand, and gently smooth his hair away from his forehead with a gentle word of farewell as he took his leave? Had he been anyone else—a common father rather than a royal one—he would not have been parted from Noct if the Six themselves called him away. Ignis had no doubt that he would have taken up residence in the bedroom and refused to move no matter how uncomfortable his leg made him if he was so fortunate.

But he _was_ the king, and as such, he had places to be.

As soon as he was gone, the apartment settled back into the typical routine that they had adopted over the course of the last two weeks. The door hadn’t shut behind him before Gladio was slipping out of the guest room where the king insisted he sleep and returning to his post by the window in Noct’s, his arms folded over his chest and a book that he would never touch waiting for him on the windowsill.  Prompto had already settled onto one of the sofas, tapping his feet idly as he glanced between the bedroom and his shoes when he thought it would go unnoticed. It was an all too familiar sight, especially when there was little else for them to do. Playing games felt _wrong_ without Noct to join in; adding noise to the solemn atmosphere was akin to holding a picnic on a grave. Besides watching, however, they had no other duties to attend. It seemed as though their entire lives had descended into a frenzy of waiting—for what, he was beginning to wonder.

That thought in itself worried him enough to take drastic action—or what he considered drastic action given how illogical the mere thought was. It had been a week since Prompto’s impromptu confession, and while Ignis had certainly done a good bit of pondering his past in the meantime, there was more to his fascination than merely his companion’s quiet musings. After all, Ignis prided himself on being a voice of reason when few others in the Citadel were willing to make the difficult decisions. Sometimes, there was no choice at all; sometimes, your path was laid before you, and all you could do was walk it. It took a keen eye and a cool head to do so without pause, and Ignis was confident that he had acquired at least that much through his years of tireless training.

So, listening to Prompto address Noct as though he was awake and listening had been… Well, suffice it to say that he had been exercising his own tact at the time.

What good had it done? What comfort had it brought him besides that of speaking his mind for what Ignis assumed was the first time in his life? Noct could not hear him; he would not remember that he’d spoken let alone what it was that he had said. The true pain would come later, if they were lucky and he had to recount his tale again to conscious ears. When that happened, he _would_ have to suffer the weight of Noct’s disdain just as they had. Any relief he had sought in sharing that information early would vanish in the blink of an eye, and the consequences that awaited him—that awaited all of them—would move to the fore.

Prompto was no fool: he knew that as well as Ignis did. He’d done it anyway.

And so would Ignis.

It was difficult to quash the twinge of shame that had him faltering on the threshold of Noct’s bedroom, but Ignis forced himself to ignore the unsettling sensation of acting like an idiot to gingerly settle on the edge of his friend’s bed. As the weight of Gladio’s gaze fell on him, he couldn’t help thinking that the simpler course of action would have been to ask both him and Carbuncle to vacate the room so that he might have some privacy to speak his thoughts. He could not do so, however, not when that meant requesting that Noct’s Shield abandon his position a second time as he had done for Prompto. Ignis knew his hopelessness, his frustration with all that he was not able to fix whenever he left the library with more questions than answers. Ignis knew the pain of being torn from Noct’s apartment when the king returned for the evening, even though he was well aware that he had no place invading the brief hours they could spend together.

So, although he could feel the Shield’s eyes on the back of his head every step of the way, Ignis did not ask him to leave. He did not ask him to do exactly what he had been suggesting Ignis should when he ranted on and on about sleepless nights or worthless research. If Ignis had been able to garner any fortitude from Prompto’s example, then perhaps it was best that he modeled the same for Gladio.

He highly doubted that it would work as intended, but that was neither here nor there. For now, this was between him and Noct regardless of his audience.

The only problem was that Ignis hadn’t the foggiest idea where to start. Did he do as Prompto had done and speak bluntly? Did he try to put a finer point on it and work his way to his purpose? Was he even positive what his purpose _was_?

Well, that was obvious. Apologies were required all around, but he thought his might be the most necessary. Prompto was merely the product of his upbringing; despite his actions and how belated his realization had been in dawning on him, he had eventually chosen to do the right thing. Similarly, Gladio was… _Gladio_. His first priority was Noct’s safety, and if that meant lying to him for his own good, then he had no qualms about saying so. Ignis knew him well enough to comprehend that he was not entirely pleased with the ordeal their lies had brought about either, yet he’d gotten the benefit of having been honest before the end. Ignis, on the other hand, had uttered so many falsehoods that he had almost convinced himself they were true at the time.

Not now, though. Not at all.

That may have been the reason why he didn’t start with what mattered most. No, if he was going to work his way up to an apology, then he had to show Noct he wasn’t about to keep anything from him—even if he could not hear it.

“The repairs to the city are coming along,” he began with a frown. That hadn’t quite been where he wanted to start, yet he supposed there was no better place. So, clearing his throat, he ignored the eyes boring into his back and continued, “There were…fewer casualties than anticipated, although some reconstruction will be required in parts of the area. Much of the damage was concentrated nearer to the Citadel, so we were fortunate not to have lost more in civilian centers than we did.”

That, of course, was hardly a result of happy chance. Ardyn had been clever: he knew that releasing the daemons closer to the throne meant King Regis would be forced to witness at least some of the chaos himself. The late hour had kept his subjects at bay, but they were not so lucky as to have suffered no fatalities. As it stood, the streets had been riddled with bodies that needed attention in the aftermath; according to some of the king’s retainers, they numbered in the dozens without the injured included. While that was still much better than Ignis would have expected, there were no acceptable casualties in this particular war, be they civilian or guard or Glaive.

_Ah. Right_.

Taking a deep breath, Ignis sat a bit straighter when he confessed, “There’s…something you ought to know, Noct. I’m afraid… I’m afraid there was… What I mean to say is that…”

_Oh, for heaven’s sake._

Why was this so difficult? Not once had Ignis ever found it this hard to say what he needed to, be it the truth or otherwise. It was his profession to tell people things that they did not want to hear in ways that made them less likely to throw punches, as Gladio tended to say. That being the case, he had learned long ago that it did not do to beat around the bush, especially with regards to subjects that were bound to evoke an emotional response. Given the situation, he had no need to worry about the latter at this juncture. The simple matter of speaking, therefore, should have been just that.

Yet saying it made it _real_ , and somehow, Ignis was reluctant to do so. After all that Noct had lost, he hated to be the one to report another casualty in the slow and insidious demolition of his former life.

He had dedicated himself to the truth, however, and he was nothing if not resolved. That, too, was what he had been taught.

Swallowing his reticence, Ignis called upon every ounce of training he had ever received to explain, “We were waylaid on our way back to the city. As it happens, Drautos was not the only traitor amongst the Glaives. It was all we could do to make it through the gates and return to the Citadel in one piece. Crowe… Well, I doubt we would be here now if it had not been for her. Her bravery, her…her sacrifice,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

When he opened them, he almost wished that Noct would do the same so that he would not have to do this again. He wished that his friend would cry, that he would rage against the fate that had stolen the person who had taught him from the time he was a child instead of those it was meant to. He wished that those expressive blue eyes would glare at him while he declared Ignis’s words to be _bullshit_ and demanded to see her for himself.

But he wouldn’t be able to. It was far too late for that, and wishes, for as much as Ignis pleaded with the Six, rarely came true.

“I did everything in my power to postpone her departure from the Citadel,” he sighed with a shake of his head. “Her family was adamant that her remains be returned to Galahd for a proper burial. I regret to say that they couldn’t wait any longer.”

That hadn’t stopped him from trying to force the issue. The moment he found out that Crowe had fallen, that Luche had imparted the killing blow just before one Libertus Ostium had run him through in vengeance, Ignis had used every privilege he possessed to ensure that she was not taken before Noct had a chance to say goodbye. Perhaps he would not want to—perhaps he would be glad that he did not have to face that particular devastation when he would undoubtedly be torn by the prospect of mourning someone who had been as complicit as the rest of them in keeping him in the dark. Regardless, it was not Ignis’s place to determine what Noct would want, and he had made it his mission to see to it that he was allowed to make that decision on his own. At one point, he had even gone to King Regis for assistance only to discover that he had none to give. Although the king had sympathized with him and was equally hopeful that Noct would have his chance to bid Crowe farewell someday, there had been no denying what Ignis had already known to be true. It might be years before Noct woke, if they managed to decipher the riddle that the curse posed at all. They could not keep her body away from her family for that long; they could not stop the steady march of time that would steal her from them in other ways. An extra week or two, it made no difference—what mattered was that her kin were waiting and that Ignis would transport Noct to Galahd himself if it meant allowing him the opportunity to pay his respects the way Ignis knew he would desire.

The way he _hoped_ Noct would desire. While Crowe no longer needed to fret about apologies and forgiveness, Ignis thought that was a far better option than never getting the chance.

That was a bridge to be crossed when Noct was awake. Right now, there was still so much Ignis had to say that he felt like it would all come bursting forth without rhyme or reason as he struggled to put his thoughts in order. Crowe’s loss was indeed regrettable, and the fallout would be another hurdle to overcome, but hers wasn’t the only betrayal Noct would have to come to terms with.

Especially when one of them had taken Drautos’s position.

“Nyx is recovering well,” he observed quietly, tamping down the irrational sense of _wrongness_ that came with letting the matter of their lost Glaive lie so easily. Without an answer to perpetuate the conversation, however, he had no choice but to press on, “The doctors aren’t certain whether he will regain full use of his arms. While it is unlikely, the king has still appointed him as the captain of the Kingsglaive. Well, what remains of it, I should say. There aren’t many left to carry on their legacy now.”

That was putting it mildly, although Ignis thought anything else was more than he needed to be divulging at present. It was no concern of Noct’s whether the king had his hands full with deciding whether he would disband the Glaive altogether or if he would bother to see it reconstituted with more loyal soldiers. It was improbable that he would choose the former, but there was only so much he could accomplish of the latter when his mind was preoccupied with other considerations. Nyx had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to lead the handful of Glaives who had survived the battle with daemons and each other alike. How long that lasted, however, was yet to be seen when they couldn’t say the extent of his own injuries or how that would impact his service. Still, his vow and the king’s wishes would have to be enough for the time being.

What did any of that matter, though? What did it matter that Nyx had received a substantial promotion or that their lives were made easier by Ardyn’s failure? What did it matter that they hadn’t been inconvenienced with corralling the daemons out of Insomnia given their evaporation upon their master’s demise? None of it would mean a damn thing to Noct, who hadn’t grown up in the Crown City and had no reason to care. This news was neither relevant nor appropriate to discuss, not even in a one-sided conversation.

His compassionate personality aside, Noct hadn’t been angry that Ignis didn’t keep him apprised of what was happening in his former home—a city he no longer had any connection to besides those who lived there. While he indeed had a right to this information, Ignis simultaneously could not ignore the truth: he was _stalling_. What had begun as a desire to tell Noct all that he deserved to know had devolved into simple rambling that bore no resemblance to what he had set out to say. After all his thoughts of proving to Noct that he was determined to remain truthful from here on out, he had chosen to prattle on without ever getting to the point.

That stopped now. If Noct’s condition had taught him one thing, it was that wasted time was the greatest curse of all.

“I’m afraid…I must ask your forgiveness,” he sighed in stilted words, bowing his head and closing his eyes again as though he could shut out the pale form before him and remember the smiling boy he had grown up with. Sadly, he could not. Instead, it was the angry, hurt, _frightened_ man that painted the inside of his eyelids when he continued, “You were right. We _could_ have made a different choice. I do not regret doing what was necessary to keep you safe, Noct. I will _never_ be sorry for that. What I do regret is not telling you the truth when the time was right and treating you the way I have always seen you—as my friend, and as my brother.”

Taking Noct’s left hand gently in his, Ignis leaned forward to whisper the contents of his heart to the only audience it was meant for. “You were never merely our _job_. You mean more to all of us than you can possibly fathom. I…never said so, and for that, I am truly sorry.”

Silence. Heart wrenching, defeated silence.

Ignis had known, of course, that there would be no response. He had been well aware before he’d even walked through the door that there would be no solace to find here. The tales of family members who somehow gained some small measure of comfort from speaking to their loved ones, whether they were asleep or gone entirely, had never rung true for him. Voiced thoughts were not meant for empty air, nor were they supposed to hover in front of their targets without breaking through the wall of their absent consciousness. Words were spoken to be _heard_ , yet his own remained airborne long enough to turn on him, cutting him deeper than any knife.

Through his pain, however, Ignis bent to gently kiss Noct’s forehead the way he should have done when his scared little brother had seemed so certain that his friends and family had been torn from him as thoroughly as his own identity. And if he spotted the barest flicker where his prince’s hand was still clutched tightly in his… Well, perhaps there was no hope to be found in their plight or the once enchanted crystal within the Ring of the Lucii, but he could manage a sad smile at the trick of the light anyway.

 

***

 

Three weeks passed with no change.

Gladio wanted to say that standing in the same spot all day was getting old, but the alternative meant failure, so he could ignore his sore knees for now. What else was a Shield supposed to do with his time when his charge was bedridden? Yeah, it was starting to look like he was _going_ to be bedridden forever at this rate, but the fact remained. A Shield’s place was at the side of his king, and until that thin chest stopped rising and falling, that was exactly where he intended to stay.

That didn’t mean that they weren’t all getting a little tired of this whole charade, though. The first couple of weeks, they’d tried to keep hope alive in any way they could if for no other reason than that the king wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. Gladio couldn’t blame him there: as tough as it was for him to see their efforts come to nothing, it had to be a million times worse for King Regis. He’d sacrificed everything for his son, and it hadn’t changed a damn thing. Years of separation, the loss of his queen, the soldiers he’d sent out to die all to keep Noct safe seemed a hell of a lot less meaningful when they’d still lost to Ardyn. Maybe he wasn’t around to laugh at them over it, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Ardyn had won. They had lost. Now, they were paying the price.

Admittedly, most people wouldn’t think that standing around getting paid to watch what was essentially a corpse could be much of a hardship. _Most people_ , however, were also pretty damn stupid. It was a good thing only a select few were allowed in Noct’s apartment, because Gladio could easily have drop-kicked anybody out the window if they so much as attempted to make light of what was happening—or _not_ happening, really. Luckily, no one had the guts, even though he knew for a fact that some of them weren’t on the same page. While the other retainers at the Citadel understood, they didn’t _comprehend_. They weren’t the ones who had whiled away years of their childhood taking care of Noct; they weren’t the ones who knew the innermost workings of his mind or the way he wore his heart on his sleeve despite Gladio’s best attempts to get him to put the damn thing away now and again. They were fortunate: to them, they’d just lost the heir to the throne. They could come and go to deliver the king what he needed when he was around without peering into Noct’s bedroom in more than curiosity. Their faces weren’t set in grief the way Ignis’s was, and they couldn’t imitate Prompto’s puppy-dog eyes with anywhere near as much sincerity.

They never had to feel as if their hearts had been torn out of their chests, leaving them wandering around like the walking dead. Those were the only words Gladio could think of to describe the sensation that accompanied him when he continued to breathe and move and _live_ but didn’t really have any clue _why_.

Or maybe he did. For as aggravated as he was at his own uselessness, he couldn’t honestly come up with anywhere else he would rather be than standing in that stupid corner of Noct’s room. It wasn’t just his duty that kept him glued to his spot by the window, either—it was so much more than that, regardless of what his charge would have thought over a month ago. In some ways, it was like they’d been transported back twelve years to when he was a kid and incapable of doing anything more than sitting on the dresser while he kicked angrily at the drawers. There was no way that he could leave, though, nor had he been able to back then. Noct was his brother, and as long as he was in that bed and unable to protect himself, he would need Gladio there. Hell, he’d guard the kid’s grave if that was what it took to make sure that no one ever messed with him again.

He definitely wasn’t the only one, although the others knew better than to ask him to leave with an offer of taking his shift. Only the king could order him away, and he hadn’t tried for a while. Gladio made sure to let him know that he was eating and that he got what passed for a few hours of sleep in the guest room—whether he actually did or not. Beyond that, there was nothing more that he needed, so King Regis didn’t attempt to tell him otherwise. Besides, what kind of hypocrite would that have made him? It wasn’t like _he_ had been spending much time in his own room for the last three weeks. In spite of his father’s best efforts, the king was adamant that he was going to stay as close to Noct as possible until they figured something out.

_If_ they figured something out.

They tried not to think about that, though.

Their best efforts weren’t good enough. It was constantly on all their minds, which explained why they were at each other’s throats if they _did_ try to talk. Well, _he_ was, at least. Ignis’s books and Prompto’s forced cheerfulness grated on his nerves to the point where he wasn’t sure he could stand either of them some days. They never held it against him if he kept to himself, but then again, they had the patience of saints compared to him. Their little chats with Noct? Sitting through those had been hell on earth, which was saying something when they’d literally fought the devil himself. Sure, he’d been curious about Prompto’s past and drank that shit up with a straw so that he could analyze it during the long hours he wasted watching Noct sleep; he’d refrained from rolling his eyes as Ignis apologized for some things they hadn’t been able to help and some things they _had_. But that didn’t erase the embarrassment he felt hearing them go on and on about that sappy stuff. What was the point when Noct didn’t hear it anyway? All it did was get everybody upset over nothing.

One thing was for sure: they wouldn’t catch Gladio _dead_ pulling something like that, no matter how many thoughts were whirling around in his head, begging to be let out.

That was what he tried to tell himself. As the weeks passed and his patience wore even thinner than usual, he was starting to get the feeling that either his companions or the universe itself wanted him to cave to that worthless tradition. King Regis told Noct about his day every night when he retired to his son’s apartment; Ignis had taken to reading him a few chapters from one of the books he’d liked as a kid even though he’d long since outgrown it and wasn’t listening anyway. Even Lady Lunafreya, who visited on the rare occasion she didn’t have anyone else to pester, tended to glare at Gladio as if asking why the hell he was standing silently in the corner and not attempting to talk about things that weren’t anyone’s damn business but his own. Her disdain couldn’t make him, and the more she glanced in his direction, the more he dug in his heels.

But he was learning pretty quick that when the universe wanted something, it usually got it.

Which was why Gladio merely sighed when the stars aligned so perfectly that he was fairly sure it was meant to be that way. Those long evenings on the sofa had done a number on the king’s injured leg, as had Lady Lunafreya’s nagging that he should get a good night’s rest in his own bed for a change. Given that Gladio’s dad had been saying the same thing with increasing intensity and frequency, he’d finally given in and hesitantly bid Noct goodnight before he retreated to his apartment upstairs. Ignis had apparently considered that an invitation to bring back a shit ton of books from the library that he hadn’t gotten done with in the three weeks he’d been camping out in there, so he and Prompto were busy chatting over some stupid history text in the living room where they wouldn’t hear him.

That only left Carbuncle. The little rat hadn’t left Noct’s side once, with the exception of the hour it took for a few of the retainers to scrub his fur clean of Nyx’s blood. Maybe Ignis and Prompto didn’t mind him listening in, but if Gladio was going to join the ranks of the utterly ridiculous saps, then he didn’t need the former mage staring at him all the while.

Not that he was going to get wishy-washy about this. He just needed to let off some steam, that was all. Nothing more to it.

“Hey, you wanna give us some space here?” Gladio grunted with a pointed nod towards the door.

He had to hand it to the little guy: Carbuncle was still pretty damn smart for a fox…thing. Even without his powers, he seemed to understand every word they said, and he was expressive enough that they could figure out what he would have told them if he had a voice. Gladio’s guess was that Carbuncle had a few curse words in mind for him, but even though his ears perked up indignantly at the abrupt dismissal, he didn’t stick around. Instead, he affectionately bunted the edge of Noct’s jaw with his head, cast Gladio a critical glare, and took his sweet time hopping off the bed and wandering into the living room.

Huffing, Gladio rolled his eyes at the display and focused on Noct rather than dwell on the fact that either Carbuncle didn’t trust him or he was just _that_ put out with having to abandon the soft pillow that he’d been slowly turning into his nest over the last few weeks. Whichever it was, he didn’t have time for it. As soon as Ignis got a load of the former Dream Guardian, he’d get curious about why Gladio was in here alone—and _nothing_ was worse than a curious Ignis.

Actually, strike that—nothing was worse than committing to spewing his guts only to have no clue what he wanted to say. As soon as his eyes landed on Noct, it was like his mind went blank, and there was nothing in his throat besides a lump that always showed up at the most inconvenient moments.

He wasn’t Prompto: he didn’t have anything to tell Noct about his history that he didn’t already know, thank the Six. Plus, it wasn’t like he’d care anyway. Their conflict was in the present, not the past, and he doubted that Noct would be bothered by not having every last detail of what they’d been doing when they weren’t in Hammerhead. He was smart—he could figure it out on his own. Still, Gladio wasn’t Ignis either. The apologies the latter had offered, however necessary, didn’t fit for him. After all, _he’d_ been open about things when they had the chance; he’d said his piece and, although he would have changed _how_ he’d done it, he couldn’t take back _what_ he’d done. In his head, he truly believed that their secrecy was important to their success, even if he wished in hindsight that they’d tried to think of something better when they were young enough to get away with flouting authority.

In his heart, however, things were different. There was an angry, savage heat in his chest that had been festering for three weeks— _longer_ , if he was being honest. It didn’t want to apologize, nor did it think there was anything to apologize for. It had wallowed in the injustice and the defeat for a month, and now that he had a chance to dwell on it? Now that he had the opportunity to examine what it meant in the silence that surrounded them all in this tomb of an apartment? No, there were no apologies here. This part of him had something else entirely in mind, and it wasn’t bashful about letting it out.

“The hell were you thinking?” Gladio growled, stalking closer to the bed and glaring down at Noct with his fists clenched at his sides. “If you’d just listened to us, none of this would’ve happened. I _told_ you to leave the goddamn door open. Your _dad_ told you Ardyn had it out for you for _years_. You should’ve stayed here, not gone runnin’ off just ‘cause we couldn’t stop you. Thought you were a hell of a lot smarter than that!”

Even though he hadn’t been expecting an answer, Noct’s lack of response didn’t stop Gladio from snorting derisively as he restlessly paced the length of the room. Now that he’d started talking, he couldn’t seem to stop, his volume growing louder in spite of his desire to keep this pseudo-conversation just between them. He didn’t bother regulating it, though; it was too late for that, and all his thoughts were already pouring out until he was hardly aware of what he was saying. The words didn’t make sense to his own ears, but that didn’t matter—all that mattered was telling Noct was an idiot he was for doing exactly what they’d tried to protect him from since he was a kid.

“Maybe if you’d pulled your head outta your ass long enough to hear what we were sayin’, you’d still be here right now. It ain’t like it was hard to understand! Pretty sure King Regis made it all clear, but you _had_ to have the last word—like always. What, did you think we _liked_ lyin’ to you? You think we got a real kick out of it?”

Jerking to a halt, Gladio stormed back over to where Noct was lying peacefully under the covers and buried his fists in the front of his charge’s shirt, nearly lifting him off the mattress as he snarled, “You should’ve listened! You should’ve stayed in your damn room! You should’ve thought about what the hell we were tellin’ you instead of gettin’ all pissed off about stuff we couldn’t control when we were just trying to protect your ass! You should’ve… You…”

He trailed off, his breaths coming so quickly that his chest heaved like he’d run a marathon. For all Noct appeared to notice, he might as well have. His eyelids didn’t flutter, and his breathing didn’t change—he didn’t complain that Gladio was wrinkling his shirt or needed to calm down. He was just… _there_. Sleeping. Always sleeping.

And as Gladio stared at him, his anger slipping away to leave a terrible emptiness behind, all he could see was a banged-up kid who was afraid of the shadows. He remembered a pale face full of terror where it had been turned towards the window in wordless fear that the monsters might jump through it to get him; he recalled a little hand reaching out for Ignis’s, reaching out for _his_ while he had buried his face in a dumb stuffed animal and fallen asleep.

He could hear his own voice reciting the vow he’d taken to be more than merely a dutiful Shield, but a loyal friend and a loving brother as well.

His vow lay in tatters somewhere on the floor of the armory now. It had been shattered into a million pieces and thrown onto the train tracks in Niflheim. It had been set on fire and dumped into the daemon-infested pit Insomnia had become three weeks ago.

Because he had failed. Because whether Noct woke up or not, Gladio hadn’t been there like he’d promised, and he couldn’t be mad at anyone but himself for that.

Especially not Noct.

“’m sorry,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead to his brother’s with a deep breath. “Sorry I wasn’t there to protect you like _I_ should’ve been. But I ain’t goin’ anywhere again. I don’t care if they gotta make a statue of me—I’m not leavin’. I ain’t giving up. Not now, not ever.”

Blinking back the suspicious wetness he definitely wasn’t going to let slide when he was already getting disgustingly emotional as it was, Gladio smiled and gave Noct a little shake before settling him back down against his pillow.

“Y’hear that? Looks like you’re stuck with me. Guess you’re gonna have to wake up if you want me to get lost.”

Not that he would—not that he _ever_ would. Noct could rant and rave and roll his eyes all he wanted, but Gladio would stand by him until the world ended.

It kinda felt like that was what was happening when he unconsciously leaned forward to press a kiss to the top of Noct’s head, absently straightening the blankets he’d messed up in his irrational anger. As he reluctantly tore his gaze away to return to his post and continue his ceaseless watch, he told himself he was crossing a border and leaving a hefty burden behind. The part of him that was weak, the piece that hadn’t been able to act when it mattered most—he was shedding it off like a second skin. He didn’t need it, not when it was the reason for his failure. Those things were better off forgotten, as a Shield or whatever else he might be; in his position, there was only room for strength. Anything that wasn’t going to help him keep Noct safe was of no use and could get the hell out.

From this day forward, he was making a new vow: to be more than a Shield, more than a protector, more than a brother, more than a friend. From this day forward, he would be everything he was meant to be and more.

He would be the Gladio that Noct had trusted with his life and admired even though he probably shouldn’t have. He would be the person he looked like through Noct’s eyes when they had stared up at him from behind a mop of messy black hair. He would make that change, even if his charge—his brother—never got a chance to see it.

If there was nothing else for him but to stand guard over a dying king, then he would have plenty of time to accomplish that much.

Gladio was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he almost didn’t hear it when a familiar voice called his name. Then again, it was so soft and hoarse that he figured anyone would have missed it, especially when it was the same voice that they’d all been worried they might not hear again.

For a few heartbeats, he thought he was imagining it. Ignis had mentioned stuff like this before, that your mind gave you what you wanted when reality told you to go to hell. People heard and saw all kinds of crazy shit when they were at the end of their rope, and Gladio could honestly say that he hadn’t been closer in a long time.

When he turned to peer over his shoulder, however, his jaw fell open in shock to discover that he _hadn’t_ been hearing things. His mind _hadn’t_ been playing tricks on him, because Noct’s eyes were cracked open, and he was staring at Gladio in bleary recognition. He could just barely see the blue of his irises behind the forest of his eyelashes, but they were _there_.

_Noct_ was there.

Somehow, although Gladio hadn’t really thought about it a great deal, he’d expected this moment to go differently. In a perfect world, Noct would have gotten up and stretched and told him he was an idiot for worrying so much, all while silently thinking it was nice of them to wait around for his lazy ass to get the hell up. In a perfect world, Gladio would have smirked and leaned against the wall and taunted him for keeping them waiting so long, all while silently thinking it was about damn time they got him on an actual sleep schedule.

This wasn’t a perfect world, though. That much had been painfully obvious lately.

So, he did nothing. He simply stood there, rooted to the spot as Noct tried and failed to push himself upright. Whether he was weak from having been out of it for a month or sore after everything he’d gone through with Ardyn, it took his surprised hiss of pain when he put weight on his broken right arm to get Gladio moving. In an instant, he was seated on the edge of the bed and hauling Noct up with a hand on his shoulder to steady him while the other hovered uselessly at his side in utter confusion.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t ecstatic. The whole not being able to speak thing was proof enough of that. Still, how was this happening—or _was_ it? They’d been through enough over the last few weeks that he wasn’t above wondering if he’d finally lost whatever marbles he had left. Who was to say that he hadn’t finally gone over the deep end and was imagining this, anyway? That was the only explanation for how surreal it felt to watch Noct groggily glance around the room before his eyes sought out Gladio’s once again.

This time, he didn’t look away. This time, he drank it in despite his confusion and his worries that maybe he needed a shrink. If it was a dream, then he would enjoy it for now.

And why shouldn’t he? Noct was awake. His eyes were open. He was even rubbing at them with his left hand, where the Ring of the Lucii was glowing almost blindingly bright with magic it shouldn’t have still carried.

And nobody had kissed his dumb ass.

_…Wait…_

Just like that, realization came toppling down on him like a thousand of Cid’s heaviest wrenches. Ignis and Prompto… And then _him_ …

They’d all…

And Noct…

_We’re a bunch of goddamn idiots._

Before he could think better of it, Gladio yanked Noct forward into a one-armed embrace, ignoring his muffled squeak of pain and surprise. Yeah, he’d have to deny it later when Noct was a little more aware of his surroundings and came to himself enough to make fun of him for it—if he wasn’t still pissed, that was—but this was worth it. Sitting here with his brother tucked into his side, the latter’s rigid posture melting as his uninjured fist clenched around the hem of Gladio’s shirt like when they were kids, made the emotional garbage all right for now.

Until Noct opened his mouth and ruined it, anyway.

“What the hell happened to your face?” he slurred into Gladio’s shoulder as footsteps behind them announced Ignis and Prompto’s hurried arrival. They must have been just as shocked as he was, because they didn’t immediately join them, giving him the time to chuckle in mingled fondness, relief, and exasperation. Leave it to Noct to be an unbridled smart ass as soon as he woke up.

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Gladio, jostling him carefully. “Can it, you little shit.”

He felt rather than saw Noct’s lips twitch into a smile, and that was apparently all the reassurance their reluctant companions needed. In the blink of an eye, Prompto had hopped onto the bed (carefully avoiding the stuffed Carbuncle that lay abandoned under the covers) and was gripping Noct’s shoulder tightly while Ignis laid a gentle hand on his back.

The glances they exchanged weren’t fearful of what was going to happen when their happiness fizzled and they had to deal with the consequences of their actions. No, that wasn’t important right now. Instead, there was confusion, there was excitement, there were even a few tears.

Everything wasn’t fixed, though. This wasn’t forgiveness—not even close. Yet Gladio still memorized this moment in all of its imperfect perfection so that he could save it forever. The rest could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As quite a few of you have pointed out along the way, romantic love isn't the only type that can be true. If there's one thing I adore about FFXV more than anything else, it's the value it places on brotherhood and familial love, whether with the family you are born to or the one you choose. To me, that's more touching than any romance. :)
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter! Only two more to go!


	32. Eyes Forward

A week passed, and everything changed.

If it hadn’t, then he wouldn’t have found himself wandering the Citadel with King Regis as if that was a regular occurrence instead of one of the many firsts he’d been subjected to over the last few days. It had taken him that long to get back on his feet, what with the fact that he apparently hadn’t eaten anything in a month and had felt like Uncle Cid’s truck ran him over when he’d woken up. According to the king’s physician, that was as normal as it was going to get under the circumstances, but he hadn’t mentioned how embarrassing it would be. Most of the time, Noctis wasn’t even strong enough to get out of bed at all; his legs had been so shaky beneath him that he nearly fell over if he didn’t have help. Of course, Gladio had always been there with a steadying hand and not one damn word about how he really should have been able to take care of himself. That wasn’t to say that Noctis wasn’t already aware of that, but if Gladio wasn’t going to bring it up, then he didn’t need to either.

Like his Shield, the king had been a near constant presence at his side every single day since about ten minutes after he’d come back to reality—as had so many people that Noctis was starting to feel kind of claustrophobic in that giant apartment of his. No matter what hour of the day or night, he was surrounded by King Regis and the guys and—most shockingly— _Uncle Cid_. Nyx dropped by daily to see how he was doing, and Cor was usually with him, but they had their own duties to attend to that kept them out of sight. He would have thought the others would be the same, yet they apparently had nothing better to do than sit around and watch him do…whatever it was that he could manage. It was more than a little awkward, to be honest.

But… Well, it wasn’t that bad either. Getting to know the king had been a real education, that was for sure. He was nothing like what Noctis had imagined, and the more time they spent together, the more comfortable Noctis felt in his presence. They definitely hadn’t reached the point where he was ready to bring out the _D_ word or even the _F_ word—he wasn’t sure they ever would, regardless of how familiar they became. Still, King Regis was unexpectedly nice to talk to, and his attention was comforting. Noctis was only surprised that he hadn’t been called away on business yet; being a king had to keep him busy, after all, with or without the crap he’d been going through with Ardyn Izunia. Then again, maybe skipping a few days was a perk of ruling? There had to be some, after all. Otherwise, Noctis thought he’d probably lose his mind.

Although King Regis’s company had become something of a new norm, Noctis couldn’t exactly say that they’d gotten very far in terms of conversation. With Uncle Cid, it was different: he’d told Noctis about how the shop and Cindy were doing, that Takka’s was practically falling apart without him and Nyx there to hold things together (somehow, he doubted that, but he appreciated the sentiment nonetheless), and that his regulars had been asking about how he was doing out here in the big city. When they’d actually recounted what had gone on while he was out, which was sort of a huge deal since they hadn’t been too forthcoming with information for the last two decades, his uncle had regaled him with epic tales of his part in the battle that he ate up with almost as much enthusiasm as he would have as a kid. Who wouldn’t when Uncle Cid had played chicken with a mage and _won_? Seriously, he’d always loved his uncle, but Noctis never would have anticipated that he was capable of the totally badass skills he had described while Noctis was too weak to get out of bed. It didn’t even occur to him to wonder if he was possibly embellishing the story a little, not when King Regis was listening with a proud smile and Ignis stood in the doorway without the flummoxed exasperation he would have worn if Uncle Cid had been making it up.

Well. He’d always said his uncle was a hero. Now he had documented evidence, that was all.

Where that conversation had flowed easily, however, things were more stilted with the king. They got by for the most part, but it was difficult to find stuff to discuss with someone he barely knew. As such, the subjects they spoke of typically weren’t as deep as Uncle Cid’s rambling. There was always how Noctis was feeling, which wasn’t usually great. Besides the persistent aches and pains that apparently resulted from a combination of getting thrown around a room and then not moving for almost a month, his arm itched painfully beneath the cast the king’s physician had wrapped it in, and he still tired pretty quickly if he was up for more than a couple of hours. Then there was how the king was doing—that was a fun topic. When they’d met, King Regis had been in one piece. Now, he was walking with a cane while his leg was sheathed in a metal brace. It didn’t look like it _hurt_ necessarily, but Noctis could tell that he wasn’t exactly comfortable, especially when he tried to move. They never went too far down that road, though: it was as if the king could sense whenever Noctis was eyeing his injury, because he seamlessly changed the subject before too much guilt could seep into his consciousness. After that, they’d mostly try for more lighthearted pastimes, like sifting through old pictures (primarily ones that Uncle Cid had gotten caught in so that he’d have something to complain about) or watching television on the huge screen in his living room. Noctis enjoyed that part if for no other reason than the fact that Insomnia had some crazy ideas of entertainment. King Regis seemed to have made it his personal mission to acclimate Noctis to all of them, which tended to mean that Prompto was hovering somewhere behind the couch, gaping as he took it all in too. That was a hell of a lot better than talking about the heavy stuff, so he had gone with it for the time being.

But, while it could be fun to just sit there with people he objectively knew cared for him, it also couldn’t last forever. Noctis had finally reached the point where he didn’t need help to move around the apartment as long as he didn’t overdo it—and he was long overdue for some serious discussions.

King Regis had decided he wanted to go first, and Noctis found that he wasn’t too disappointed about that. Although he wouldn’t say things were awkward with the guys, they also hadn’t addressed any of the issues they really needed to. He had been putting that off for as long as possible, which was simple when they always seemed more than pleased to do the same. Sure, there were moments where one of them (or _all_ of them) looked like they wanted to start the ball rolling, but they usually thought better of it once he noticed them staring. That, too, wasn’t likely to continue. They’d probably never be ready to have that particular conversation, yet Noctis wasn’t optimistic enough to believe that it wouldn’t happen. No, it would likely come around a lot sooner than any of them wanted.

So, Noctis had eagerly accepted King Regis’s invitation to go on a walk. He hadn’t been outside the apartment since he’d gotten here—at least, that was how it felt since he’d been asleep for everything else—and it was nice to get some air that wasn’t stifled by the eyes that were constantly on him. Even so, a twinge of guilt made his stomach drop with every tap of the king’s cane against the marble floors or the noisy shifting of the brace on his right leg. He knew that everyone would tell him otherwise, but it increasingly seemed like it had been _his_ fault. After all, King Regis would have been perfectly fine if he hadn’t had to defend Noctis from Ardyn.

His discomfort must have been more transparent than he thought, because the king’s free hand reached out to squeeze his upper arm, and Noctis glanced over to see a knowing smile on his face. Yeah. Definitely transparent.

“You needn’t concern yourself,” King Regis insisted with confidence Noctis wasn’t quite certain he shared. “I have endured worse than this over the years and expect far greater still.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?” asked Noctis tentatively, not that the king appeared to mind. If anything, his expression turned a touch more affectionate when he nodded in confirmation.

“It does, but it was none of your doing. That fault lies with me.”

“Not…so sure about that,” he mumbled. His own shoes scuffed against the ground in perfect rhythm, his gait unevenly matched to the king’s. It didn’t seem to bother the latter as much as it did him, but then, he wasn’t likely to let Noctis know if it did anyway.

That much was clear enough when King Regis chuckled lightly under his breath and sighed, “Your mother always said I took too many burdens onto my own shoulders, whether they were mine to carry or not. In that, it appears that we are one and the same.”

Noctis couldn’t tell which cost him more: admitting that he tended to overdo the whole responsibility thing or mentioning the queen. Either way, he wasn’t about to call him on it—talk about a touchy subject. Besides, he was too busy shooting the king his best imitation of Ignis’s most unimpressed look. That, however, only entertained him further.

“A man makes his own choices, Noctis,” he observed, smiling fondly at him. “It was mine to step between Drautos and Cid, just as it was my folly alone that resulted in my injury. As you grow older, you will often find that the scars we bear tend to be our own doing, as are our daemons.”

It was a pretty optimistic viewpoint, especially for someone who already knew this wasn’t going to get better. The doctors had been clear that while his physical rehabilitation was coming along well, there was no possibility that he’d get back the kind of use he’d once had in that leg. He’d be lucky if he got to take the brace off someday, at this rate.

What was the point of dwelling on it, though? Noctis couldn’t help thinking that that was the realization King Regis wanted him to come to: there was no use in assigning blame for things they couldn’t change. Ignis had told him something similar on his birthday, although he definitely hadn’t been in the mood to listen to logic and reason. Now, though, he could see why the king felt like he did even if he remained positive that none of this would have happened if it weren’t for him. Getting bogged down with what could have been, feeling bad about stuff that was a lot more complicated than simply saying it was one person’s fault or another… That was no way to run a kingdom.

On the other hand, it did bring an entirely different issue to light that Noctis hadn’t considered before. Maybe King Regis didn’t think he was as responsible as Noctis did, but his injury presented something of a problem regardless. At least, that was what he assumed, given his limited knowledge of how the hell being a monarch worked and all.

“How can you be so calm?” he inquired incredulously, slowing his pace when he noticed the king was lagging behind. “Aren’t you worried people will think you’re…?”

“Weak?” 

Noctis couldn’t bring himself to say the word, but King Regis wasn’t at all offended by having to do so himself. The same thought must have occurred to him, and he hummed pensively as they unhurriedly strode down the corridor.

“Yes,” he eventually admitted, “I’m certain some will indeed think less of me than before. There are many who will undoubtedly view me as growing old and incapable of protecting Lucis. In the former, they would be correct, but the latter is an entirely different matter.”

His voice hardened a bit in determination, and in spite of everything, Noctis truly believed him. How many kings needed two legs anyway? Most of them sat on their thrones and dictated what everyone was going to do from there. He wasn’t trying to say that King Regis was worthless—not even remotely. It was just that he wouldn’t be the one who marched off to war; he wouldn’t be the one who stood at the borders and kept the Niffs from pouring in. (Well, he wouldn’t have been. That was another thing they’d told him about.)

The king exuded plenty of strength right here in the Citadel. That wouldn’t change whether he had diplomats to greet or guests to entertain, whether he wore the brace or if he sat on his throne to pass judgment like all the others. Anyone who thought differently needed to either spend five minutes with King Regis or have their head examined. Or both.

That grew only more obvious when he continued, “Nothing I or anyone else can say will change their hearts and minds. There are instances in which words are of use, but when dealing with one’s subjects, it is imperative that your actions speak for you. This is no different. Sometimes, a king must endeavor merely to walk tall. If that is all I can accomplish, then I need not fear that those few voices will be proven correct.”

To that, Noctis had no answer. All he could do was nod in solemn understanding, King Regis’s sentiment striking a chord deep within him that he hadn’t examined in longer than he wanted to think about. How often had Uncle Cid told him the same thing—to _walk tall_? He was well past the days of taking that as literally as he used to when he was a kid, and now that it was coming from the king, Noctis had a feeling he knew where it had originated.

That thought had a smile pulling at his lips, albeit a sad one. It sounded so easy to walk tall when you were someone like King Regis: having power and money removed humanity from the situation and left only his station, which was definitely beyond privileged. Staring the royal life in the face, however, Noctis was starting to realize that the reality had to be pretty different than anyone could possibly expect. There were tons of awesome advantages to being in charge of the whole kingdom: the Citadel was full of fancy stuff that he’d probably break in the near future, and King Regis seemed to have more gil than the Six. Still, he’d also lived his whole life in the public eye and had to overcome plenty of tough obstacles. While he’d always been fairly popular for a leader, Noctis had heard his fair share of criticism on the news when he worked at Takka’s. Not everyone was a fan of his policies, and instead of making it about the legislation, most people tended to make it personal.

A few months ago, Noctis wouldn’t have thought anything of it. That was simply what it meant to rule a country. Today? Well, he wasn’t sure how the king managed to _walk tall_ when some of his subjects kept trying to kick his knees out from under him.

Apparently, that was the price of governing. You couldn’t make everyone happy, no matter how hard you tried—that was a fact of life whether you were a king or a hunter or some kid flipping burgers at a diner in the middle of nowhere. The point, as Uncle Cid had drilled into his head, was not to let them see you flinch. You walked tall and told those people to get lost if they wanted to tear you down.

But he hadn’t been a king or a prince or anyone of note back then, which was why he shook his head and muttered, “I don’t know how you do it.”

“As with all things, it comes through practice,” King Regis assured him casually. They could have been talking about the cost of chocobo feed for as comfortable as he seemed with the unexpected turn their conversation had taken.

“Practice?”

Smiling, the king explained, “Over time, a monarch must decide what will be of greater concern to them: what they do or how they look in the eyes of their subjects. In some matters, it is simpler to strike a balance—the actions you take will be equal in appearance to the good they do for others. However, there will be yet more occasions where what is good for the people you are tasked with protecting is more important than how they view you…or how you view yourself.”

As the king trailed off into silence, the clicking of his cane suddenly even louder, Noctis thought maybe they weren’t talking about the kingdom or ruling anymore. Yeah, it had _something_ to do with that, but it was hard to believe that was the only thing King Regis had on his mind when his eyes were haunted and his shoulders sagged so heavily. Ever since he’d woken up, the king couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from him; it was like Noctis might just disappear or fall asleep again if he did. With his words hanging in the air between them, though, he was hard-pressed to glance in Noctis’s direction at all.  

If they were the same people they’d been before… _everything_ , then Noctis would have understood that. In fact, he probably would have welcomed the king’s discomfort, even though he hadn’t blamed him for the injustices he’d suffered nearly as much as he had his friends.

Thankfully, he wasn’t that person. Never had he been more grateful for that than in this moment. Awake or asleep, he’d had plenty of time and nothing better to do than think about the revelations he hadn’t gotten a chance to really process on his birthday. Plus, actually getting hit with the whammy the king had tried to save him from to begin with admittedly put things in perspective. What kind of ungrateful brat would blame King Regis for sacrificing what he had in an attempt to protect him?

Not Noctis. Not anymore.

That wasn’t to say the situation was perfect: they had more than a few awkward moments where they couldn’t seem to find the words they wanted to say, not to mention the fact that he still wished that their lives could have been different once upon a time. In spite of all that, the anger he’d felt before simply wasn’t there. It was hard to feed that fire when he couldn’t help wondering what he would have done if it had been the other way around. If it had been anyone else—if it had been someone _he_ loved who’d gotten cursed—would he have made a different choice? Or would he have given up everything to see them safe? Honestly, he didn’t even need to ponder it for long: he would have done exactly the same thing. That much, he could say with absolute certainty. He would gladly dive back into the pit of monsters that still had him waking up with nightmares in the middle of the night if it meant saving his friends from that fate. No amount of grief or sadness or plain old vitriol could change that.

The king didn’t know him, though. He couldn’t read Noctis’s face like Ignis or predict his emotions like Gladio; he couldn’t sense the shift of his moods in the air the way Prompto had a tendency of doing. That would come with time, and if they were lucky, they’d actually get it.

For now, it looked like Noctis was going to have to put it out there in words. _Awesome._

Pointedly clearing his throat, he bobbed his head from side to side in thought before he quietly murmured, “Maybe, sometimes…people are harder on themselves than they need to be. Maybe they only _think_ their subjects hate them when, deep down, they get that their king is only trying to do what’s best for them.”

Okay, it couldn’t get much more obvious than that without entering the realm of _painfully_ obvious, so Noctis stopped himself before he could go any further. Fortunately, King Regis wasn’t stupid. Although they didn’t know each other well, he seemed to read between the lines almost as quickly as Ignis, which was pretty impressive. As such, he didn’t come right out and blow Noctis’s cover. Oh, no—he was way too subtle for that.

Instead, he smiled gratefully and kept up the charade just a little longer: “That is all a monarch can ask for.”

No. That was all a _father_ could ask for. Maybe he hadn’t said it, but Noctis could hear it as clearly as if he had uttered the words himself. Suddenly, he was beginning to think that getting acquainted with each other wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

And _that_ was definitely a good place for him to find something else to talk about.

At least, that was what he thought until the king directed them down a corridor to their left and they exited into a garden so colorful that Noctis wondered if it was magical. Growing up in Hammerhead didn’t mean he hadn’t seen greenery before—books and television _were_ a thing, especially when Ignis was around to make sure you were _cultured_ and all that. None of those pictures came anywhere near capturing what he was staring at when he stopped in the doorway, his mouth hanging open while King Regis watched him with a smile that should have made him feel more embarrassed than it did.

How could he pretend that this wasn’t the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, though? The Crown City itself was a marvel, sure, but this? It was a _dream_. The fluorescent lights and crowded streets of Insomnia were nowhere to be found, just trees and bushes and flowers and _sky_. They were still inside—he could see a glass encasement molding perfectly to the shape of the Citadel around them—yet it was as though they’d stepped into a totally different world. Everything was somehow more vibrant than he ever would have thought possible. Where the landscape around the outpost was a conglomeration of muddled browns and golds, it almost looked like someone had let a five-year-old loose with finger paint in here. Despite the summer heat, the grass on either side of the path the king led him down was a brilliant shade of green; nothing had dried up or burned out like any of the plants that did manage to grow in Hammerhead. The air was full of scents he’d never smelled before and assumed must have been coming from the flowers, all of which were so glaringly bright that they were getting harder to look at the longer he gawped. When he brushed one of them with the back of his hand, they were soft and smooth in a way that nothing at the outpost had been.

Pictures… They couldn’t prepare you for this kind of stuff. They didn’t clue him in to just how overwhelming it was to be in the center of it all, a part of the scenery yet simultaneously a foreign entity. If Insomnia could boast of more attractions on this scale, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad living at the Citadel. He never would have thought he’d say that, not even to himself, but that was sort of becoming a recurring theme these days. At this point, he found it was easier to simply roll with the punches. After enduring so much change, what was a little more?

The idea of staying, however, brought him right back down to earth. Something had been gnawing at him ever since he’d woken up—well, maybe not _that_ long, but close. Still, with all the thoughts that had been swimming around his head, it had crossed his mind more than once. It just hadn’t seemed like something he should ask about, at least not so soon.

_As if there’s going to be a better time?_

Briefly glancing over at the king, Noctis took a deep breath and stowed his reservations. So far, King Regis hadn’t rebuffed any of his questions; he hadn’t made excuses or told him there were things he couldn’t say. If he was feeling this generous with information, then there was no reason Noctis couldn’t take advantage while he had the opportunity, right?

“So… What’s going to happen now?” he inquired hesitantly, tearing his eyes away from the distracting sights around them. While the latter didn’t appear reluctant, he also didn’t seem to understand the question entirely.

_Go figure._

“In what context?” asked King Regis.

For a moment, Noctis could only shrug, painfully aware of how childish his concerns were. It sounded even worse when he clarified, “I mean, with me being here. The rest of the kingdom’s gonna be cool with some random prince popping up all of a sudden?”

To his credit, King Regis didn’t laugh at him the way he half expected. As a matter of fact, Noctis got the distinct impression that he had already thought of this before: his expression was too sympathetically pensive to indicate anything else. The king didn’t answer right away, though, which he definitely appreciated. Now really wasn’t the time for empty platitudes or worthless reassurances. While it might not be today or tomorrow, someday soon they were going to have to tell everyone that he was there—they’d have to remind them who their prince was and introduce them to the person who was going to be their king sometime down the road. (He _really_ hoped it wouldn’t be too soon for a lot of reasons, many of which surprised him.) That sort of thing shouldn’t be taken lightly, and it was comforting that the king was giving it some thought.

Ultimately, that was what made him all the more believable when he finally replied, “I predict there will be little for us to worry about in that regard. Your presence is indeed unfamiliar to the people of Lucis, but they have long awaited your reentry into society. You may very well find that their affection for you might be more overwhelming than you can possibly anticipate,” he added with a low chuckle.

Noctis didn’t share his humor, cringing a bit at the idea of receiving the sort of attention King Regis had over the years. Yeah, he’d gotten his fair share of criticism, but that didn’t wipe out some of the blatant hero-worship Noctis had seen on the news either. All that, coming from people he had never and most likely would never meet? Kind of over the top, to put it mildly.

King Regis must have sensed his trepidation, whether from personal experience or because Noctis was doing that bad a job at hiding it—he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was both. Either way, he placed a comforting hand on Noctis’s back as he continued, “There are so many things you have yet to learn, things that could not be taught without divulging far too much at the time.”

“Yeah,” snorted Noctis, sounding far less bitter than he knew he would have a few weeks ago, “tell me about it.”

“We will be remedying that with all haste. When you’re ready, that is,” amended the king with a patient smile that Noctis believed entirely.

Coming from anyone else, he would have thought that was merely a polite nudge in the right direction—that he would _have_ to be ready regardless of whether he actually _was_ or not. The longer he spent in King Regis’s company, however, the more he was coming to trust the words he said and the subtle emotions in his eyes. It was honestly no wonder people liked him.

As a king, anyway.

That king didn’t wait for him to accept or decline before he pressed on, “Only once you’re certain you are up to the task, you will be accompanying me in my own duties. Ignis and I will provide whatever clarification you might need and guide you through the process until you are comfortable with the basic functions of a monarch.”

Blinking, Noctis blurted out, “Wait, _you’re_ going to teach me?”

“Who else?”

“I…figured there would be instructors for that…or something…” he trailed off lamely when the king’s piercing gaze shifted to him, bringing them both to a halt in the middle of the path. Unlike on television, there weren’t any birds chirping to break up the silence that stretched between them, and it took every ounce of control Noctis possessed not to fidget slightly under the weight of King Regis’s scrutiny.

What else did he expect Noctis to believe? He never would have thought the king of Lucis was going to tutor him in how to do the job he was apparently born to inherit. He was…well, the _king_. There were meetings to attend and appearances to make; the council needed approval from him before they could do anything, which he _had_ learned as a kid. He didn’t have time to be telling Noctis what every little word meant or showing him the ropes. That was for Ignis and probably a fleet of well-trained retainers to do in some tiny room where they could just pour the knowledge he should have gotten a long time ago into his head.

Then again, he _also_ wouldn’t have thought that the king could take a week off to basically just _sit_ with him, either.

Rather than going the diplomatic, political route, King Regis surprised him yet again by shaking his head and bringing his free hand up to carefully squeeze Noctis’s shoulder. “Sending you to Hammerhead, while necessary, was far from ideal. Already, your care has been entrusted to others for too long. From now on, if you are agreeable, I will see to your education myself.”

Noctis wasn’t really sure what to say to that, but he was definitely agreeable— _more_ than agreeable. When he’d first gotten to the Citadel, he’d been positive that the king would be distant at best; he couldn’t picture anyone else giving up their son for twenty years with nothing but a note to explain his actions. If it was his destiny to live in Insomnia, then Noctis had guessed that it was going to be a pretty lonely existence, either because the king wouldn’t have time for him or he simply wouldn’t want to be around the guy who hadn’t bothered with him.

What a difference one month and a curse made.

Putting his reluctant, nervous excitement into words definitely wasn’t going to happen, but he could tell King Regis understood the implications of what he was asking when he inquired, “So, what’s my first lesson?”

The grin that lit up the king’s face was infectious, and in that instant, Noctis wasn’t looking at the aged monarch who had sacrificed too much for the greater good. No, this was the man from the picture he’d seen in King Regis’s chambers, the one who had smiled down at his baby son as though nobody else in the world mattered.

Not once had Noctis actually _felt_ like the child in that picture. Not once, until now.

If the king was getting tired of his questions or beating around the bush, however, he didn’t let it show. He seemed more than willing to play along with the game Noctis was perpetuating, gesturing for him to follow as he continued along the path once more and told him _everything_ about the Citadel. It wasn’t just the boring political stuff, either: although it was the seat of their government, the palace was also a home—his _new_ home, too. There were theaters so that you didn’t have to beat the crowds to see a movie; there were places to get gourmet (see: _junk_ ) food at all hours and so many spots to relax in that he wouldn’t be able to count them all if he tried. There was apparently even a _car_ of his very own in the garage beneath the Citadel, waiting for Ignis to teach him how to drive it.

And as if all that wasn’t enough, almost everyone he knew lived in the same building within a few floors of each other. It was everything he’d ever wanted as a kid, with a couple of exceptions. Gladio’s family had a house not far away, according to King Regis, and Uncle Cid would more than likely be returning to Hammerhead at some point in the near future. While the latter wasn’t exactly unexpected, Noctis still couldn’t help feeling a pang of sadness that he knew he wasn’t entitled to. His uncle had done so much for him over the years; he shouldn’t have to get over his aversion to Insomnia purely to follow Noctis to the Crown City on top of it. They had phones, and Noctis was starting to think that maybe the king wouldn’t be against the idea of him visiting the outpost from time to time. They’d make it work—he’d see to that.

At least that was an option for him. The king couldn’t say the same when he slowed to a halt beside a statue that Noctis vaguely recognized, although he’d never seen the person it was modeled after in real life. All that remained of Queen Aulea were pictures and memories now, none of which King Regis could ever relive. Just like Noctis couldn’t step back into his old life, there was no returning to the days when another royal had walked these halls. There were no phone calls to be had or weekend trips to be taken. There was just a grave and the stone effigy that marked it.

It was one of the most uncomfortable sensations in the world to wait there while the king stared at the sculpture, shuffling his feet and doing everything he could to find somewhere else to look. Oddly enough, none of the plants that had caught his attention before held it now, and he kept peering up at the woman who would have been his mother in another life with mingled curiosity and sadness. Not for himself, unless he counted the distant regret that he would never meet her. No, his grief was for King Regis, who suddenly didn’t seem quite as strong where he stood in the shadow of the monument. His shoulders had been straight before, but they were now hunched over his cane as he clutched it tightly in one hand; his expression hadn’t gone blank, yet it was missing a lot of the warmth Noctis had gotten used to seeing over the last few days. In its place was a raw, bitter turn of his lips and eyes that were dimmed by a pain that wouldn’t fade away no matter how many years passed.

That was when Noctis realized why it was they had stopped here, and it wasn’t to admire the craftsmanship of what had to be King Regis’s most talented artisans. This hadn’t been a random visit at all: the king _wanted_ to show him this place, as well as who he was when he came here. In the other parts of the Citadel, he had to be King Regis—he had to maintain the façade that Noctis had thought for sure was his actual identity before he’d arrived and seen what the king kept in his chambers. All those photos, all those keepsakes had given him plenty of warning for what he was seeing right here in this place. This person was hardly a king; he was simultaneously more and less than a monarch.

He was just a guy. He was the guy who would have been Noctis’s father.

In another life.

“There was a time when I used to frequent this place when reigning over a nation grew to be too much,” King Regis mused quietly, his voice still carrying in the otherwise quiet gardens. “On occasions where I felt the need to step back from my duties and my kingdom, I would come here. For quite a while, it was nearly a daily occurrence.”

“Things were that bad?” wondered Noctis when he didn’t say more than that.

A few seconds passed where King Regis didn’t answer beyond a terse nod. Then, heaving a sigh, he tore his gaze from the statue to eye Noctis somberly as he replied, “Never forget that while the rule of a monarch is paved with accomplishment and satisfaction, it is similarly riddled with trials that will ever seek to test your mettle.”

_Not like you have to tell me that_ , Noctis thought with an inward cringe. He knew better than to say it aloud, though, especially to someone like the king.

Not that he didn’t sense what was going through his head, from the looks of it. With a smirk of mild amusement, King Regis lowered himself carefully onto the stone bench beside his wife’s likeness with a grunt of pain, stretching his injured leg before him.

“I visited more often as a young man,” he observed with a wry glance at his brace where it glinted in the sunlight. “The years have dulled that ache enough that it is easier to remain distant than before.”

Nodding, Noctis tentatively moved to sit on the ground at his feet, careful not to disturb the grass as though it might bother the person beneath it. “That’s probably a good idea.”

“Indeed. Your mother was always unceasingly rational. I have no doubt that she would have preferred that I live my life, not spend it wasting away in front of some stone.” The king paused, chuckling remorsefully as he glanced back at the queen’s effigy. “She would have given me quite the lecture had she known how regularly I came here.”

“She would’ve done the same for you, though. Right?”

King Regis’s smile turned more genuine at that, his gaze seeing something in the past that Noctis couldn’t. “Without fail. Grief is a healthy part of life, as is loss. If we did not experience them both, then we would not feel compassion for those who have. There is a balance that must be met, however, between allowing oneself to grieve their losses and freezing in place. A king must push onward, always. Standing still is not the way to rule a kingdom, Noctis, nor is it any way to live one’s life.”

That was funny—a month ago, Noctis would have rolled his eyes. It had felt like that was all he was doing and all he’d ever do, living in grief until he’d blinded himself to every other emotion. They had been too painful to stomach, so why bother? It had been so much easier to bury himself in his anger and bask in the injustice of it all. That way, he wouldn’t have to think; there was no need to decide what he was going to do next when he dug his heels in and tried to ignore the rest of the world. Living was infinitely harder, and for a while there, Noctis had thought maybe it simply wasn’t worth it.

He was _really_ glad for the last month. After everything that had happened, after all Luna had told him, he finally understood: grief was potent for a while, but all things turned to light eventually. Fury faded and sadness bled away if you gave them long enough. When your suffering subsided and you could see clearly again, the people who cared about you would be there to hold you up until you got back on your feet.

In his case, that had been pretty literal. On his birthday, he wouldn’t have guessed that he’d forgive his friends for what they’d done. He’d been so incandescently—and, in hindsight, irrationally—angry that he’d let it reshape the way he saw them until they were unrecognizable. Time and two mages had sanded down the edges of his pain, though, and he’d felt nothing but relief when he woke to almost immediately find himself in their arms. Surrounded by all that warmth and love after the bitter chill of the darkness, he hadn’t doubted for a second that they were _his_ Gladio, _his_ Prompto, and _his_ Ignis. He hadn’t seen them as actors, shells, caricatures of the people he’d thought he knew.

_His_ Gladio had been the one grinning down at him and shrugging off his new scar like it was nothing when… Okay, he didn’t want to say that it made him look like a thug, but there really wasn’t a better word for it.

_His_ Prompto had been the one excitedly shaking him while he tried to make sense of how Noctis had woken up at all, wearing clothes that spoke of the trust and loyalty of the highest power in the land.

_His_ Ignis had been the one who ushered him to lie down and told Prompto to call the king… And call Uncle Cid… And asked if he was hungry… And fixed the tubes Gladio had dislodged when he’d pulled Noctis upright… Typical Ignis stuff.

Nothing that happened before had mattered in that instant. The only thing he’d been aware of as he’d watched them hurry around the room in an effort to either make him comfortable or tell half the Citadel he was awake was that they were staring at him as though he might slip away again. That concern, that fear, that _love_ —it didn’t come from two retainers and a spy who simply wanted to bring King Regis to his knees. It hadn’t hurt to look at them anymore or let them straighten his pillows and help him around the apartment. He hadn’t seen a bunch of liars and traitors when they’d been hovering over him, worrying about something that had nothing to do with kings and princes. They were just Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto.

And yeah, they definitely needed to have the conversation he’d been putting off all week, but that could wait. For now, it was enough that they were the reason he was even here. He had to be grateful for that.

What he was also grateful for was that King Regis was kind enough to change the subject to something more casual after that. As thankful as he was that the king had sent him two of his best friends (and hadn’t taken the other one away), where they all stood with each other wasn’t something he was ready to confront just yet.

King Regis must have recognized it, because he steered clear of the mushy stuff that had made Noctis board that train of thought in the first place. He simply began outlining what they would need to cover in his makeshift lessons now that he was a future king who would have to push onward and all that. Surprisingly, it didn’t sound so overwhelming when he put it the way he did—although that might have had something to do with the fact that this wasn’t exactly what he would have called a formal setting. Had they met in one of the million conference rooms he’d seen signs for all over the corridors, then he might have felt pretty different. Here, though, sitting on the ground with the smell of flowers in his nostrils and the king lounging casually on the bench before him as if this was nothing more than a vacation? It was…nice.

Plus, King Regis understood what he was going through, which he hadn’t thought would be the case before. While his calling hadn’t come as a shock to him the way it had to Noctis, he _had_ been a prince once. He’d been subjected to the towering wall of responsibility that stared him in the face, reminding him that there were meetings and appearances and formal events and diplomatic dinners and political maneuvering and all kinds of considerations that he couldn’t screw up unless he wanted to get everyone killed. Of all the things they could possibly bond over, Noctis thought that one made the most sense.

Unfortunately, the other thing they were both aware of was that kings couldn’t hide forever. A couple of hours passed in a flash, and long before Noctis was ready (much to his surprise), Gladio’s father arrived to remind King Regis that he had to attend his usual therapy session. The doctors apparently didn’t hold out much hope for his leg working well, especially when there was no Oracle to heal whatever had gotten busted up inside it, but he had admitted on more than one occasion that his utmost priority needed to be recovering as best he could in spite of that. Actually, his priority was his health, _period_. Noctis didn’t like thinking about it for plenty of reasons—some of which he wasn’t ready to admit even to himself—but King Regis had no qualms about pointing out that he wanted to spend as many years with Noctis as he could. As such, staying in shape was kind of necessary.

That was one endeavor he was going to have to handle with his own Shield, though. Noctis hadn’t needed today’s conversation to tell him that the king wouldn’t want him to see his weakness on full display, so he was just fine with waving off King Regis’s invitation to walk with them in favor of hanging out in the gardens a little longer. It was comfortable out here, and he could definitely use the time to think about a few things before he tried to find his way back to his apartment— _tried_ being the operative word, as Ignis liked to say. The Citadel _seemed_ simple to navigate until you actually gave it a shot and found yourself heading in the entirely wrong direction.

Still, he put on his best show of confidence as he smiled, reassured the king that he would absolutely call him or his friends if he needed anything at all, and watched him accompany Gladio’s dad out of the gardens with as reluctant an expression as anyone could possibly muster. Odds were that he wouldn’t be happy until he was sure that Noctis was safe in the apartment, which he would be. Eventually. It wasn’t like there was any shortage of people to escort him if he _did_ get lost, although Noctis grimaced when he realized that the first thing they’d probably do was tell King Regis about it.

Such was royal life, apparently.

He could see why the king liked it out here, though: there was something nice about the solitude, especially when he’d been smothered for the last week. That wasn’t to say that he was complaining—the company had been comforting in spite of all the words they hadn’t said floating around the room like ghosts, waiting for someone to mention the wrong thing. Companionship aside, it just felt like he hadn’t gotten a chance to breathe in so long that he couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d gotten a few seconds to himself. When he’d arrived in Insomnia, he’d been under constant watch, and for good reason regardless of his initial irritation. In that shadowy realm where he hadn’t been sleeping but also _had_ , he’d been surrounded by monsters; when they weren’t around, Luna and Carbuncle were. Then he’d woken up, and he hadn’t been left alone for a minute ever since. If the king wasn’t right beside him, Uncle Cid was. If he wasn’t, one of the guys was. If _they_ weren’t, then he had a visitor. It could be a revolving door up there, and for once, it was a relief not to have to hold his chin up and assure people he was fine. _Again_.

With everyone popping in and out, there admittedly wasn’t much of an excuse for them not to have had the discussions they really needed to. Well, some of them, anyway: he and Uncle Cid had gotten pretty plain with each other a few nights ago. That wasn’t too surprising when his uncle had always told him he couldn’t run from his problems, that he would have to face them and that sooner was infinitely better than later. Noctis still wasn’t sure whether he’d meant to have that conversation or not, but he was erring towards the former given that the king had found some convenient reason to leave them alone for a few minutes. Almost immediately, Uncle Cid had been apologizing, although Noctis was still groggy enough that he hadn’t understood what for. How did he not get that just being there was apology enough? It wasn’t like Noctis had ever expected he would up and leave Hammerhead to come to Insomnia, not after they’d said goodbye outside the garage. His uncle had made it very clear that his place was at the outpost, and while Noctis had used that as ammunition for his anger back then, he understood now. Hell, he wasn’t even sure whether _he_ belonged in the Crown City at this point.

But his uncle _had_ come. He’d helped King Regis and his friends defeat a _mage_ , which was beyond what he ever would have anticipated. That he’d stayed, that he’d sat by Noctis’s bedside while he dozed in and out like he had as a kid? That spoke a lot louder than any words.

All things considered, it was an easy apology to accept, not that he thought the others would be any harder. It seemed as if everyone else was constantly expressing their regret with their actions—the way they looked at him, the way they interacted with him, even the way they waited on him hand and foot (and not with the mechanical movements of people who were merely serving their prince, either) was indicative of their remorse. There was no denying it, nor did he want to. Not anymore.

While he appreciated it, however, he was also good with saving all that heavy stuff for later, too. None of them were going anywhere, and neither were the words that always got lodged in his throat every time he thought he might try to broach the subject. There was no reason for him to rush.

So, Noctis leaned back in the grass and simply enjoyed the peaceful solitude despite the twinge of discomfort that shot up his arm when he put some of his weight on it. Even though he was technically inside, it felt like he was out in the wilderness somewhere all the same. The soft grass beneath his fingertips was a stark contrast to the grainy sand that he’d grown up cleaning out of just about _everywhere_ it could possibly get, and when he breathed in, the smell of the flowers brought a relaxed smile to his lips. So far, life at the Citadel didn’t seem like much of a hardship. Sure, it probably wouldn’t always be like this; eventually, he would have his own job to do and one hell of a learning curve. He couldn’t bring himself to be as scared of that as he’d been when Uncle Cid first dropped the bomb of his past on him, though. He didn’t quite register the same sense of dread thinking about the ring he’d left on his bedside table in the apartment as he had before. The nerves were still there, as was the inherent fear that he was going to screw all this up and disappoint everyone, but he’d felt that way even when he worked at the diner. What made it all okay was that he’d had his friends and family to support him.

He hadn’t thought so when he came to the Crown City, but right about now? Noctis didn’t think that had changed nearly as much as he had expected. If that was all the encouragement he could take from this whole topsy-turvy mess he’d ended up in, then he supposed he was doing all right.

Until the sudden rustle of leaves had his head snapping up and his eyes darting towards the bushes not far down the path from him. He wouldn’t say he _panicked_ necessarily—there was no need to panic in a place full to bursting with people who were literally paid to keep him safe, after all. That didn’t stop him from tensing involuntarily when he caught sight of a pair of familiar amber eyes watching him.

Unlike when he was a kid, his first reaction wasn’t relief or excitement. Noctis didn’t hop up and hurry to greet the dog that had come to visit. The moments after his shouting match with Ignis and Gladio were fuzzy at best, but what he _did_ remember was following Umbra—or what _looked_ like Umbra. Logically, he knew they weren’t the same dog, just like he knew that Ardyn was gone and couldn’t play the same trick on him again. Regardless, he froze in place, his fingers suddenly gripping the grass as though those flimsy blades might protect him. All of a sudden, solitude didn’t seem like the best idea in the world.

_Where’s Gladio when you need him?_

In his apartment. Probably waiting for him to drag his ass back up there.

Luckily, it turned out that he didn’t need any muscular intervention. Someone else stepped up beside Umbra a moment later—someone he’d never seen outside of his dreams.

If he’d thought Luna was pretty in his head, it was nothing compared to how radiant she looked with the backdrop of color that seemed to cushion them in the same soothing atmosphere as the glade where they’d met. There was no eerie mist or curious ruins in the distance, but the quiet shifted until Noctis could almost believe that he’d fallen asleep and was simply seeing Luna the way he always had.

But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. She was really here, walking towards him with a gentle smile that automatically loosened his muscles from where they had been fully prepared to send him running from the threat he saw where none existed.

Noctis had heard she was at the Citadel, of course. It wasn’t easy to hide the fact that the now former Oracle was staying in Lucis when she’d spent the last however many years trapped in Tenebrae. The king and his Shield had mentioned her from time to time in their own conversations, although Noctis had decided against asking for more information. After all, what right did he have to see her? She hadn’t visited since he’d woken up, and he’d thought maybe she didn’t want to. Based on what he’d gathered from the king, she’d lost her powers the same way Carbuncle had—because of _him_. Where the latter seemed content to spend his days lounging around Noctis’s apartment like his very own pet (he’d essentially claimed half the bed at this point, so he definitely had no intention of going anywhere anytime soon), he’d fully expected the Oracle to be a little less forgiving. Everything she’d been before was gone, and all the people who needed her would never be healed of whatever ailed them. And yeah, he wasn’t selfish enough to think that it was _all_ his fault: it would have happened eventually if someone was going to stop Ardyn. That, at least, was what Ignis tended to tell him when he could sense Noctis descending into melancholy thoughts of how King Regis would probably be walking normally if Luna had her powers. Still, he had been the one to force their hands, not the fourth mage.

Sitting here now, however, he was starting to wonder if maybe Ignis had gotten it right. There wasn’t any blame in Luna’s gaze, not when she watched Umbra trot forward to give Noctis a few cursory sniffs, and not when she knelt to sit in the grass beside him despite her pristine white dress. If anything, this felt a whole lot more natural than meeting in his room would have. For one thing, he was fully dressed, which was a plus. For another, they had plenty to say that wasn’t for anyone else to hear. None of them had any idea that they even knew each other anyway, so why bother explaining?

This was for them. He’d tell the others about their intermittent anger management sessions some other time.

Pushing those thoughts as far from his mind as he possibly could, he smirked sheepishly and asked, “You here to say, ‘ _I told you so’_?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied with a light laugh as Umbra lay down between them with his head in Noctis’s lap, “although I _did_.”

Noctis chuckled, yet his humor didn’t last long. Now that they were here, in the real world with no monsters threatening to drag him back under again, there was so much he wanted to say that he hardly knew where to start. He wasn’t the person she’d met in his dreams: that guy had been so angry and bitter that he wasn’t sure how Luna had tolerated it. If it were him, he would have been tempted to simply walk away and leave him to his daemons. With the empire hanging around, she had admittedly handled a whole lot worse, but that was out of necessity. She hadn’t needed to stay with him or guide him the way she had—she chose to anyway.

In that case, maybe it wasn’t so hard to come up with something to say after all.

“Thank you,” he murmured, eyes dropping to where he was absently running his fingers through Umbra’s fur. “I really appreciate everything you did.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Luna calmly retorted, “I was not the one who overcame the greatest of the obstacles you faced.”

“Well, _I_ couldn’t have done it without _you_ ,” Noctis contradicted her with an uncomfortable shrug.

“You had a far better guide to show you the way than me,” she argued, apparently unwilling to let him get the last word on this.

When he hazarded a glance at her, that easy smile of hers hadn’t faded a bit. If anything, it had grown wider in amusement that he apparently wasn’t getting something she thought was important. So what else was new?

“And who would that be?”

“Not who, but _what_.”

Noctis blinked, still not comprehending.

“It is nothing that can be seen,” Luna explained after a moment where he thought she was trying not to roll her eyes at him. Considering the fact that she used to be the Oracle, he figured she had to be an expert at that sort of thing by now. “You opened your heart to people who hurt you and learned to love them again without a care for their transgressions. There are many who live out their entire lives unable to do the same.”

Her smile slipped a bit, and Noctis frowned to see the same sadness in her eyes that he’d noticed every time he would wax poetic about how useless he was. He hadn’t come right out and said it, not when that would have made him sound even more insufferable than he knew he’d been already, but he realized in hindsight that that was what a lot of their conversations had amounted to—him telling some story where he’d given someone else the credit while she tried to convince him that he could take a little for himself.

This time was different, though. Instead of watching him with the sympathy she’d exuded in his dreams, there was something more personal about the way her gaze fell to the ground and she folded her hands neatly in her lap. It usually wasn’t _Luna_ who avoided eye contact, and for once, Noctis could read her like a book instead of the opposite.

“You…sound like you’re speaking from experience,” he tentatively prodded, waiting for her to tell him that it was none of his business.

She didn’t. He wasn’t exactly surprised: Luna was one of the most open people he had ever met. Actually, that was a lie—she _was_ the most open person he’d ever met. Everyone else had been hiding one thing or another, and while he wasn’t angry about it like he’d been before, there was still no denying that they hadn’t been honest with him. Luna, on the other hand, had always told him the truth no matter how much it hurt. That was something he simultaneously appreciated and hated about being around her.

From the looks of it, she felt the same about him right about now. Her hesitation clearly indicated that that wasn’t an observation she wanted to address, yet she didn’t let him rescind his silent question. She merely pasted a pained smile on her face and forced herself to meet his gaze again.

“I’m afraid my brother has never been able to see past his hatred for those he blames for the loss of our mother,” she admitted with a sigh.

Frowning, Noctis couldn’t help blurting out, “But that was such a long time ago.”

Luna nodded solemnly. “It was. I can’t begin to count how often I have told him that this path will lead him nowhere but to more misery. He…cares little for my opinion on such matters,” she added with a twist of her lips that wasn’t anywhere near as amused as it had been mere moments earlier.

“That’s too bad,” mused Noctis. He nearly grimaced at how careless it sounded to his own ears, but what else was he supposed to say? It wasn’t really his place to badmouth her brother, after all, especially when he was the king of Tenebrae and they would probably have to deal with one another someday. That was his assumption, anyway: the king didn’t say much when it came to Ravus Nox Fleuret, and his friends had been pretty vague about his involvement in destroying the Crystal of the Six. All Noctis knew was that he’d been there, along with some imperial commander who’d spent the last few weeks helping with the reconstruction effort. In what capacity either of them had been involved in that whole fiasco, however, was a mystery to him. That was yet another thing he was mentally adding to the list of stuff they needed to get out in the open at some point.

Thankfully, it appeared that he showed just the right balance of disdain and sympathy, because Luna hummed in agreement. The warmth in her eyes when her smile regained its sincerity and a bit more affection made his stomach flip.

“It is my hope that he will someday learn to be more like you, Noctis,” she told him, her voice quiet while radiating the same admiration he usually felt when he thought of all she’d accomplished. Why she was turning it back on him, he had no clue.

Scoffing, Noctis averted his gaze and busied himself with keeping Umbra from licking at his cast as he countered, “Well, maybe we’re already more alike than you think. It took me long enough to figure everything out.”

“I confess, I did worry for a time,” she admitted after an almost imperceptible pause. “Still, I _am_ glad that you found your light, with or without my aid.”

They could have gone back and forth forever about how he definitely _wouldn’t_ have if not for her, so Noctis didn’t bother arguing further. Neither of them was about to change their mind, although the voice in the back of his head that always sounded like Ignis was busy berating him for not being proud of what he’d done. After all, he _had_ turned things around, hadn’t he? Luna hadn’t been there when he’d made the decision to fight, to wake up, to _live_. That had been all him—or, more accurately, his desire to see the people he loved again. If it hadn’t been for them, he wouldn’t be awake much less sitting in the gardens bickering over who was more responsible for his recovery.

Even so, the mention of her help brought another sensation to the surface that King Regis had managed to quell with his reassurances, and Noctis ducked his head to murmur, “I’m just sorry you had to give up your powers.”

He didn’t say it was for him; it sounded too conceited even in his head. That didn’t mean it wasn’t hovering in the air between them like a bug, however, waiting for one of them to acknowledge its presence.

And Luna immediately did just that.

“It was not your fault,” she sighed, and he saw her shake her head regretfully out of the corner of his eye. “That was a sacrifice we should have made long ago. Each of us has always been willing to give something of ourselves in exchange for the deliverance that Eos desperately needs. It is the greatest of our callings. Living out our lives as anyone else would is a small price for peace.”

“I’d say Carbuncle probably agrees with you,” Noctis pointed out with a reluctant smirk, one that Luna answered with a grin of her own.

“He has certainly grown accustomed to life at the Citadel.”

“More like the _food_ at the Citadel.”

That much had become pretty obvious not long after he’d woken up. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said that he was living in the former Dream Guardian’s apartment instead of what was meant to be his own. When Carbuncle was tired, he nestled in the pillow beside the one that Noctis had been using instead of finding a nice spot on the rug; when he was hungry, Ignis made him a meal that seemed more princely than anything he was willing to feed Noctis. With a trade-off like this, who would want to go back to wandering around inside people’s heads?

Clearly thinking along the same lines, Luna laughed, “I would be careful. I shudder to think of what Carbuncle will become if he is so thoroughly spoiled.”

“I’ll have to talk to Ignis about reining it in,” promised Noctis, although they both had to know that he wasn’t about to say a word. Ignis was too soft under the professionally crafted veneer he’d always thrown into place, and if anyone deserved some spoiling after all he’d done, it was Carbuncle. The Six knew that he’d given up too much as it was, as had the rest of the mages.

The thought of the others transformed his amusement into equal parts trepidation and curiosity, and Noctis raised his head to peer cautiously at Luna as he asked, “By the way… What happened to the Messenger? The king said he hasn’t seen her since…”

That wasn’t a sentence he wanted to finish, especially when Luna instantly sobered at the mention of the last mage to remain unaccounted for. The Blade was dead, the Oracle was sitting before him, and the Dream Guardian was probably snoozing in his bed or something—but the Messenger hadn’t been seen or heard from. According to Ignis, they’d met with her in Niflheim (which he’d thought strange) on their way back from rescuing Prompto (which he’d thought _stranger_ ). Besides that, though, no one seemed to have any answers about what part she’d played in all of this.

Well, no one except Luna.

“Gentiana made perhaps the greatest sacrifice of us all,” she replied with a significant inclination of her head.

It was impossible not to register what she was implying, yet Noctis still asked, “She’s…gone?”

Nodding, Luna confirmed, “Yes. The Messenger and the Blade were immortal, their existences bound to the power of the Crystal. When the stone was shattered, that blessing was stripped from them both. Ardyn found another method to ensure his survival, but Gentiana knew the consequences of her decision and gladly chose to rejoin the Six if that was what it took to safeguard mankind.”

Just like in his dreams, Luna’s sophisticated phrasing did absolutely nothing to hide the terrible truth beneath them: the Messenger was dead. His friends had killed her— _he_ had killed her. She was yet another tally on the growing list of people who had given up far more than they needed to for him. Sure, he understood what Luna meant about having waited too long to do this, but it still stung to realize that he had been the catalyst. Whether it was the king’s leg or Luna’s powers or the Messenger’s life, they might have lasted a little longer if it hadn’t been for him.

That wasn’t the sort of thing Luna would want to hear, though. Noctis had never asked about her relationship with the other mages, but he could tell from the grief in her eyes that she must have been close with this Gentiana person. It seemed like loss and mourning were the theme of the day around here, which was why he decided that maybe they were overdue for a change of subject.

“How come you’re not gone too?”

…Or maybe not _that_ much of a change.

Luna didn’t seem to mind, however, and didn’t waste a moment in responding, “Although each of us shared a common goal, our blessings were different in nature.”

“You mean your powers?” he inquired, frowning when she shook her head.

“Yes and no. While our abilities were indeed divergent from one another, the benedictions of the gods ran far deeper. Carbuncle and I were not blessed with the gift of eternity.”  

How the hell did that make any sense? _Ardyn_ —the corrupt Blade of the Six—had been given immortality, but Luna hadn’t? The Oracles were meant to heal people, to give them hope. Even when Luna had been cloistered in Tenebrae under imperial rule, the transient visitors at the outpost had been able to take solace from merely knowing that she was still alive somewhere. That kind of power, that kind of influence… If anyone deserved to live forever, it was Luna!

Putting his thoughts into words proved more difficult than Noctis had anticipated, and for a minute, all he could do was sputter a few aborted attempts at a response. Finally, he shook his head incredulously and settled for demanding, “How come?”

“It was not our purpose,” she answered as though it was simple. Maybe it was to her, but when she saw that Noctis was still silently fuming, she hurried to explain, “Carbuncle was immortal in that he could exist within dreams. There is no aging there, nor does time flow in quite the same way it does in reality. Inside dreams, he could indeed live forever. Now that he can’t, he will live out his days as any other creature with his unique traits.”

Which, if Ignis kept feeding him the way he was, would be a hell of a long time.

Noctis grunted in acknowledgement but otherwise didn’t respond as she continued, “The Oracles… We were never meant to be immortal. Ours was to be a modest existence, one where we watched over humanity and thwarted anything that might seek to disrupt its course. To do so required us to remain untainted by worldly temptation, and to that end, we do not live long enough to become corrupted by our own power. Where the Blade and the Messenger were sent to guide humanity through the ages, the Dream Guardian and the Oracle only ever sought to offer that which we could within the span of a single lifetime.”

“A human lifetime,” he murmured pensively.

“A human lifetime,” echoed Luna.

It was amazing: just when he thought he couldn’t admire her more, she said stuff like that and made that lump rise in his throat again. To Luna, it didn’t seem to matter whether she had powers or not; from the bits and pieces of Cor’s complaints he’d heard when the marshal stopped by, it sounded like she hadn’t been idle even after she had destroyed the Crystal. Noctis wanted to say that he would do the same in her position, that he would carry on and do what needed to be done without fear despite suffering such a blow. If he could manage to be even half the person she was, he would never have to worry about being a good prince—a good _king_.

His future wasn’t the point, though. Luna’s was, so he set aside his residual anxiety to ask, “What do you think you’ll do now?”

For once, Luna didn’t have an immediate answer. He could tell there was something on her mind, but she appeared to be thinking it over before she laid it out on the table.

Which probably meant he wasn’t going to like it.

“My first priority has not changed,” she eventually replied, her tone so cautious that it all but confirmed his suspicions for her. “Without the Messenger to speak for the gods, it falls to me to guide those who are lost or in despair.”

Smiling in spite of himself, Noctis couldn’t help but interject, “If anybody can, it would be you.”

His vote of confidence brought a smile back to her face, although it was short-lived as she remorsefully concluded, “That is why I am leaving for Tenebrae tonight.”

And there it was—the part he’d been waiting for. They barely knew each other—a few chats in his dreams and one real conversation weren’t enough to make them friends—yet he felt a pang of something like grief at the idea that she was going home already. Hadn’t she been the one who said she hoped he would wake up so that they could meet for real? He hadn’t expected her to vanish the second they did, no matter how much the rational side of his mind was telling him that it only made sense. She was a princess and the former Oracle: she couldn’t hang around Lucis forever when she had people back in Tenebrae who were waiting for her.

One in particular, it seemed, worried her the most. When Luna spoke again, there was a longing in her voice that Noctis recognized almost too readily. After all, he was pretty sure he’d sounded the same way on the few occasions when he’d mentioned the guys in passing.

“Now that Ardyn’s reign has ended, it is time that my brother and I came to an understanding. Tenebrae does not need a king filled with rage and hate. If the only person I can guide now is Ravus, then I will do what I must.”

“Makes sense,” muttered Noctis, trying and failing to hide his own disappointment. Rather than give her the chance to comment on it—a chance he knew she would take—he hurried to continue, “Does _he_ know you’re going home?”

That had her smile shifting into more of a smirk, and there was definitely a hint of sarcasm when she lilted, “He will.”

Chuckling, Noctis predicted, “The look on his face should be interesting.”

“My brother has always been expressive,” agreed Luna before her expression shuttered once again. “Regardless of what the future may hold, I cannot wait any longer. Commodore Highwind will be returning to Niflheim with a Lucian contingent organized by King Regis, and she has graciously offered me passage aboard her vessel.”

That should have been his cue to find out more about this commodore everyone seemed simultaneously keen on and uncertain about, but Noctis’s attention gravitated towards her mention of the king instead.

“He’s…sending people to Niflheim?”

Luna nodded. “With no leadership, the empire will soon collapse. King Regis has agreed to assist Commodore Highwind in organizing a temporary government to oversee Niflheim’s people and ensure the independence of their occupied territories. If we are fortunate, other nations will join us, my own included.”

If they were fortunate, then Niflheim would catch fire and burn down before they ever got there, but Noctis had a feeling that wasn’t an opinion she would agree with. They couldn’t all be former Oracles, though, so she’d have to forgive him for not being as good a person as she was. After all, he’d spent his childhood listening to Gladio bitch about how terrible the Niffs were, not to mention everything he’d seen on the news about the newest plots they were attempting to hatch here and there. If it was up to him, he’d leave them to figure out their problems on their own.

At least, he _would_ have. He wasn’t supposed to be the Noctis who grew up hearing about skirmishes and blockades in Hammerhead anymore. That guy was… Well, he was technically still there; his was the voice Noctis heard first before he was able to temper whatever he was feeling into something a little more princely. Being next in line for the throne—and wasn’t _that_ something else—meant that he had to keep an open mind, even if that required him to feel pity for a bunch of Niffs who had looked the other way while their emperor did his level best to destroy the world. It helped to remember that Prompto had been one of them, just another face in the crowd that they’d used for terrible things. It helped to remember that he had made the right choice, and if he could do that, then there was no telling how many of Niflheim’s civilians could be brought around with the right amount of prodding.

Now _that_ was a more diplomatic way of seeing things. Ignis would be so proud.

“What about you, Noctis?” Luna inquired, banishing his thoughts of what the future would hold to drag him back to the present, as always.

“What _about_ me?”

Smiling gently, Luna gestured towards the gardens around them and clarified, “What happens now that Prince Noctis has finally returned home?”

That wasn’t exactly the way he would have put it in his head, but Noctis decided not to correct her. She’d heard enough by now to know that the Citadel, while he _could_ get used to it, wasn’t what came to mind when she used that word.

Instead, Noctis took a deep breath and shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess I’ll have to figure out who he is first.”

“I think you’ll find that won’t be difficult,” she assured him with that same confidence he’d always wished he could emulate. Maybe that would come with the royal training he was supposed to be receiving.

Whether it did or not, whether she was right or not, there was no delaying the inevitable. The sun was already steadily making its way towards the tops of the trees, and if Luna planned to leave on time, he wasn’t about to keep her here just to listen to his insecurities. That was fine in his dreams, where she’d literally hunted him down for that purpose; it was one thing when there was an actual solution, an attainable goal to work towards. That wasn’t where he was now, though. At this point, it was all a matter of waiting and hoping for the best. He’d have his friends at his side and people who cared about him in his corner, even if he wasn’t always so certain of how he felt about them in return. They’d be there when he was at his lowest, wanting him to confide in them the way he had in Luna while he slept. It wouldn’t be so easy to let them in, but he was willing to try.

So, he didn’t postpone the goodbyes that were markedly different from the one he’d offered King Regis earlier. Somewhere deep down, in a place that he hated to admit had been shaped by Ignis’s fancypants schooling over the years, he found the words to wish a princess well with more sophistication than some backwoods hick from Hammerhead would. (That was how he’d heard Cor put it once, anyway.) He managed to avoid stumbling over himself in an attempt to sound at least a little like the prince he was supposed to be, offering her his best and hoping that she and her brother reached whatever agreement she was aiming for. Maybe it didn’t sound as polished as it would have if King Regis said it, but he didn’t think he’d botched anything—he would call that a victory for now.

If Luna noticed how hard he was trying, she was kind enough not to address it. Well, in a sense: she _did_ make it a point to mention that she believed he was going to make a great prince, which he thought was a bit premature when he hadn’t even gotten through his first day on the job yet. For all she knew, he would screw everything up and Lucis would hate him. Admittedly, he had his doubts that the king would ever let that happen, but the fact remained that he was flying blind here. He had a long way to go before he could claim to have anywhere near the kind of experience she did, and even then, he would be playing catch-up.

Whatever trepidation that reminder filled him with vanished the instant she leaned over to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. In his dreams, her touch had tingled with warmth that he hadn’t been able to feel when the monsters were tearing him apart like animals descending on prey. This was no different, although the heat was joined by something he couldn’t identify that sprang up in the pit of his stomach and threatened to make him blush.

Actually, it didn’t _threaten_ —he could already feel the heat rising to his cheeks well before he managed to hide behind his hair.

_Damn it…_

So much for playing it cool.

The wonderful thing about Luna? Or _one_ of the many wonderful things about Luna—she seemed to know exactly how to distract him from his embarrassment every time. Today was no exception, and she waved Umbra aside so that she could deposit a journal in his lap that he had hoped he’d never have to see again. Its familiar leather cover practically glowed in the late afternoon light, the gold bird on the front staring innocently up at him as though he had no reason to throw the damn thing as far as he possibly could. He wasn’t about to refuse a gift, especially not one from Luna, but he also had to wonder what the hell he was supposed to do with _this_.

Apparently, he would have to figure that out on his own. As she got to her feet, straightening her miraculously unstained dress and gesturing for Umbra to follow her, Luna didn’t offer him more of an explanation than a smile and a simple, “For new memories.”

Noctis didn’t have a chance to ask what she meant, not that he would have been able to anyway. Before his brain recovered enough to form words, she was already moving back down the path, vanishing inside the Citadel and leaving him to wonder if she’d ever been there at all.

Glancing up at the queen’s statue, which appeared to be staring after Luna in just as much confusion as him, Noctis sighed and muttered, “Yeah, same.”

A part of him considered simply ditching the journal on the bench for someone else to find and heading back to his room. It wasn’t like Luna would ever find out, and after hearing her talk about her brother, Noctis had to admit that he was getting that itch to go find the guys that had been intermittently plaguing him for the last week. He didn’t, though, not yet. _She_ wouldn’t know whether he tossed her gift, but _he_ would. That was more than enough incentive for him to close his eyes, take a deep breath, and wrench open the cover of the journal as though daemons might leap out at him.

But they didn’t, and neither did any more inconvenient memories.

The first page was completely blank, as were the second and the third. There were no photographs that had never been taken or pictures of things that were better left forgotten. There was just paper, places for him to put the memories he did want to see, like Luna had said. All he had to do was make some.

This week had been full of them, the good and the bad. As Noctis rolled over to lie on his stomach, setting the journal on the ground in front of him, he smiled sadly at the realization that Prompto hadn’t been recording any of it with his camera the way he used to. Maybe that was part of what made things so awkward between them: not once had Noctis heard the telltale click or seen a flash when he least expected it. There wouldn’t be any photos of him talking to Uncle Cid or King Regis; he wouldn’t have anything from the evenings he’d spent watching movies or napping on the couch with his friends around him. There would be no documenting Nyx’s face when he’d visited for the first time, the way his eyes had smiled as broadly as his lips even though his posture was stiff and it was obvious that he was still in pain. Noctis wouldn’t be able to tape any images of Cor’s relief or his exasperation at Carbuncle’s antics onto these pages.

Those memories would have to remain in his head, locked up tight so that he could reflect on them where no one else would see. Then again, was that so bad? This week hadn’t been the easiest, even if it was nowhere near as painful as his first day in the Crown City. There had been plenty of instances where the words wouldn’t come or that old bitterness over all this change had surged up within him, dragging his mood down until he could distract himself with something else. Did he really want pictures of that? Did he really want to add memories to this journal before he’d made everything right with the people who mattered most?

No. The last thing he needed was to be looking backwards, and he doubted Luna had given him this gift for that sort of thing anyway. He needed to keep his eyes forward and walk the path he’d chosen the moment he decided that he wanted to wake up. If that meant leaving a few memories behind for the time being and only pulling them out again when he was prepared to see them for what they were—a starting point instead of an end—then so be it. There were better things to dwell on and dream about in the interim.

Noctis didn’t mean to doze off with those thoughts drifting through his mind, but he woke with a start to a panicked voice calling his name and someone roughly shaking his shoulder. In fact, _shaking_ probably wasn’t the right word for it—if he didn’t know any better, he would have said they had broken into the Citadel and were trying to tear his royal arm off.

It was a damn good thing he registered Prompto’s presence a moment later. Otherwise, he would have tried a few of the moves Gladio had taught him as a kid now that he realized they weren’t quite as useless as he’d believed back then.

Of course, it wasn’t like he would have been able to do much regardless. His arm ached when he yanked it out of Prompto’s grasp, and he hissed in pain as he belatedly remembered the doctor’s warnings not to move it around too much lest he knock a few things loose. He figured the cast itself would be a decent enough weapon in a pinch, but it was unlikely that he’d get more than one use out of it. Prompto, for all that they were friends, wasn’t worth having to explain to the court physician how he’d managed to shatter his bones yet again. So, the best he could manage was an irritated scowl as Prompto chuckled nervously, his grin more relieved than anything else.

“Sorry, buddy. I just, uh… Y’know, just checking.”

In any other situation, Noctis would have grumbled about him overreacting. After all, he took random naps all the time; it wasn’t really a new development for him to fall asleep somewhere without meaning to. More often than not, everyone left the reprimands to Ignis, who had been attempting to convince him for years that he should set a more regular sleep schedule for himself. Nothing ever changed, though, and the most severe reaction it usually garnered was an eye roll or exasperated huff.

Like so many other things, this was different. It had to be. Noctis doubted they would ever casually joke about his sleeping habits again; if they did, it definitely wouldn’t be anytime soon.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, swallowing his frustration when he noticed the sky outside the Citadel had gone from blue to black without his knowledge. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t _that_ hard to fathom why Prompto had been worried.

It appeared that he let his concern drop almost instantly now that he knew Noctis wasn’t in danger, however, because he hurried to help him to his feet with a snort. “Sure, dude. Tell that to the dirt in your hair.”

_…He’s not serious_.

Oh, no. He _was_. Unconsciously, Noctis raised his good hand to the side of his head and winced to find that there were some gritty particles that had no business being there. If Prompto’s guffaw was anything to go by, then there was a lot more of it than that, too.

“This is _so_ not the place for a nap.”

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” sighed Noctis with a halfhearted glare, brushing out what he could and resolving to grab a shower once he got back to the apartment to get rid of the rest.

Prompto, who was too used to his excuses to believe them, simply nodded his head with a slow, “ _Riiiiight_.”

“Seriously,” countered Noctis, not that it made any difference.

“Uh huh. I’m not judging.”

For the barest fraction of a second, Noctis considered telling him about his conversation with Luna as proof that he truly wasn’t slacking off and making everybody worry on purpose. He even had the perfect opening as he leaned back down to pick up the journal he’d apparently been using as a pillow while he slept. With Prompto staring at it, the obvious question flitting across his face, it would have been so easy to simply inform him that he’d been talking to the former Oracle and couldn’t be blamed for his own drowsiness.

But that wasn’t what he did. That was private, and although he wouldn’t be able to hide their friendship or whatever they were going to call it forever, he didn’t mind keeping it to himself a bit longer.

Besides, the second he said anything, he was positive that he would never hear the end of it. Apologies and awkwardness only went so far when Gladio had something like _this_ to entertain him.

“How did you even know I was here?” Noctis grunted, swaying a little on his feet as Prompto nudged him along towards the nearest doorway.

His casual shrug belied the hint of concern in his gaze, but he didn’t mention Noctis’s unsteadiness or the way he had to force his eyes open when they attempted to stay shut after every blink. Rather, Prompto kept one hand behind his back so that if Noctis did fall, he would be there to support him. It wasn’t something he thought was entirely necessary, especially when he’d been perfectly capable of getting around on his own for a couple of days as it was, but Noctis didn’t brush him off the way he might have any other time. Admittedly, he’d accomplished more today than he had all week, so it was probably for the best that he didn’t push it. He could be aggravated about it once he was back in that comfortable, expensive bed of his.

“Cameras, man,” replied Prompto once he seemed sure that Noctis wasn’t going to pass out on the spot. “They’re everywhere.”  

_Well, that’s eerie._

Grimacing, Noctis muttered darkly, “Better not be _everywhere_.”

Prompto laughed, pausing on the threshold until Noctis made it up the steps before he joked in a singsong voice, “You never know. Iggy’s probably gonna put you on a leash pretty soon. Just wait till he finds out you were sleeping on the ground.”

“Which he’s _not_ ,” warned Noctis with a sidelong glance at Prompto’s mischievous smirk.

“Not too hard to figure out. You look like you wrestled a chocobo and lost, dude,” he snickered.

There was no arguing that, so Noctis didn’t bother trying. He simply rolled his eyes and suggested, “You can distract him while I grab a shower.”

“And get toast for dinner?” scoffed Prompto, shaking his head as though that was the worst fate imaginable. “ _So_ not happening!”

“Come on!”

“No can do.”

“Traitor,” mumbled Noctis without thinking.

He would have expected any number of witty retorts from Prompto, not least of which being that no one could blame him when Ignis was much more frightening than Noctis could ever hope to be. That was how this exchange usually went: Noctis accused Prompto of not having his best interests at heart over something petty and childish, and Prompto told him to kick rocks because he wasn’t about to incite Ignis or Gladio’s ire. In five years, that hadn’t changed.

Until now.

For once, Prompto had nothing to say, and Noctis peered over at him to see that his shoulders had gone tense where he was rummaging in his pocket for the key that would allow them to access the elevator to Noctis’s apartment. Even in the dim light of the corridor, his skin looked paler than usual behind his suddenly more prominent freckles; when his eyes darted briefly to Noctis, there was a nervous sort of panic there that he hadn’t anticipated. It was like he’d seen a ghost, only instead of fear, Noctis could feel the shame rolling off him in waves as he reached forward to tap the button for the lift.

This time, the silence wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was different from when they’d been left alone together in the apartment, talking about everything but what they needed to because Noctis wasn’t ready and his friends were waiting until he was. This was a heavy sort of quiet, the kind that smothered you until you felt like your eardrums were going to combust from the weight of it.

And it was all his stupid fault.

The doors sliding open to admit them did nothing for the mood. In fact, the air seemed to congeal in his lungs when they were alone in the elevator, Prompto inserting his key into the panel and shuffling uncomfortably as they ascended. More than once, Noctis heard him open his mouth to say something only to close it again a second later. That was one feeling he was getting increasingly familiar with as time passed: how often had he done the same thing? How many times had he considered calling Ignis back to talk— _really_ talk—when he was leaving to get something for him? How many times had he glanced over at where Gladio was stationed beside his window, attempting to come up with the words he needed to say only to discover that they weren’t there? How many times had he looked at Prompto and prepared himself to see a Niff spy instead of the friend who smiled at him in response?

In all those cases, Noctis had shut his mouth and kept his thoughts to himself. It wasn’t a subject they could avoid forever, not if they were going to have to work together, but he simply hadn’t been ready to break the tentative peace that had settled between them yet. It figured that he’d managed to do exactly that with one misplaced word.

Unlike him, however, Prompto apparently decided that enough was enough. Noctis furtively watched him straighten to his full height, pulling in a deep breath and steeling himself for whatever it was that he wanted to announce now that they were literally stuck together with no options for escape.

“Listen, Noct…” he began, trailing off indecisively. The glance he shot Noctis was nervous, but his determination won out as he struggled to continue, “There’s… There’s something I, uh…I probably should’ve told you…”

_No. No no no. Not like this. Not here._

“I already know,” Noctis interrupted before he could think better of it.

It wasn’t the smoothest strategy he could have concocted: the way Prompto’s jaw dropped and his eyes narrowed in mingled fear and skepticism told him that much. But he couldn’t let this happen—not standing in the middle of an elevator without Ignis and Gladio. If they were going to do this, if they were finally going to have the discussion that they should have days ago, then they needed to do it the right way.

So, he didn’t apologize, nor did he explain what he meant. He didn’t even answer when Prompto quietly guessed, “Ignis…told you?”

Shaking his head, Noctis didn’t utter a word. He ignored Prompto’s gaze, which he could tell was trained on him without needing to check their reflections in the doors, and he refused to let himself feel bad about holding his breath almost the entire way down the corridor towards the apartment.

In his defense, he wasn’t _trying_ to make Prompto uncomfortable. A month ago, he would have said to hell with that; what he and the others had done was worse, after all, so they got what they deserved. That wasn’t what ran through his mind this time, though. This wasn’t about petty vengeance or whatever minor rebellions he could manage when he had no choice but to accept what had happened. If it was, if he allowed that part of him to take control, then he would be no better than Ardyn—and he _refused_ to compare himself to that guy.

What he needed as he stepped inside and let Prompto close the door behind them was a moment to breathe and gather his thoughts. He needed to dig into his head and his heart to find the words that had been evading him all week, not the ones that he’d wanted to say on his birthday. He needed to take in the sight of Ignis and Gladio launching themselves off the couch to ask where the hell he’d been and if he was all right without the added weight of their betrayal on his mind.

Noctis needed the same clarity and strength that his friends had shown every day he’d known them, whatever their motives might have been.

So, he didn’t answer their questions. He didn’t bristle under Gladio’s indignation that he’d been off by himself all this time or Ignis’s insistence that he should have called. Instead, he mirrored Prompto: he stood tall and said the one thing he should have as soon as he’d woken up.

“Let’s talk.”

At that, everything went silent. Noctis could even hear the ticking of a clock somewhere in the apartment, and it almost looked like no one was breathing for fear of what was going to come next. Their wary expressions actually had him biting back a laugh: what, did they think he was going to yell at them?

…Come to think of it, that probably _was_ what they were expecting. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done that last time they tried to have a heart-to-heart. Noctis wasn’t going to let this explode the way it had then, however— _he_ wasn’t going to explode. Now he just had to prove to _them_ that he wasn’t.

In that, he was lucky: he was so exhausted from the rigorous task of _walking_ that he made a beeline for the couch, dropping into the corner with a sigh of relief. The idea of screaming at them from there was comical at best.

They must have realized it too, because a moment later, they were all seated around him and steeling themselves for whatever it was they believed he had planned to say. (Honestly, it would have been a better idea to come prepared, but there was nothing wrong with winging it. If he spoke from the heart, maybe he wouldn’t get hung up on whatever his head kept trying to avoid.) Noctis was going to take it as a good sign that they weren’t barraging him with excuses and explanations for things he was already well aware of—that would just make things so much more awkward.

Which was why he didn’t intend to let this drag on. It was about time he took a leaf out of Luna’s book.

Pulling in a deep breath, Noctis glanced at each of them in turn as he began, “You guys should’ve told me.”

A little accusatory, but at least it didn’t sound as bitter as it could have. He’d call that a win.

So did the others, apparently. Gladio’s shoulders sagged slightly, and Prompto swallowed hard as Ignis agreed, “We should.”

“But I know why you didn’t,” interjected Noctis before he could say anything else, “even Prompto. I… I get it.”

That one seemed to take all of them by surprise, but it was Gladio who inquired, “How’d you find out about that?”

_Daemons told me while I was sleeping._

Yeah, that didn’t really sound like the sanest response. He hadn’t told them anything about what had been going on in his head while he was out, and he was in no rush to. It wasn’t that he thought they wouldn’t believe him—if anything, he was worried they’d take him too seriously. After everything that had happened, there was plenty of guilt to go around; they didn’t need to blame themselves for what he’d been dealing with on top of the rest.

“It doesn’t matter,” he evaded as smoothly as possible. Gladio looked like he might press the issue, so Noctis hurried to continue, “You guys…are my best friends. And I-I _want_ to trust you. It’s just…”

“It’s difficult to trust those who have not earned it,” Ignis finished for him, albeit in a way that hadn’t occurred to him.

Shaking his head, Noctis countered, “It’s not that. You wanted to protect me—I get it.”

“We still lied to you, though,” ventured Prompto tentatively.

Gladio grunted in agreement, although it was less apologetic than resigned. “Wasn’t our first choice.”

For his part, Noctis didn’t doubt that for a second. After sifting through all those memories while he slept, there was no denying that his friends cared about him. It was impossible, even at the height of his anger and confusion, to claim that they had been glad to ply him with lies and falsehoods. Retainers might have; retainers cared about professionalism more than anything else. Friends, however, wanted nothing more than to help each other. If that meant lying to him, if that meant making him believe that they were all something they weren’t, then he couldn’t entirely fault them for it. Ultimately, their transgressions didn’t make any difference.

What _did_ was that they were all here now, ready and waiting for him to tell them how they could make this better. Fortunately, that was something he didn’t need to think about.

“Maybe it’s about time you made it up to me,” suggested Noctis with as straight a face as he could manage.

Ignis and Gladio eyed him warily, but Prompto was quick to demand, “How?!”

Allowing himself a small smile, Noctis dropped Luna’s notebook on the table in front of him and grabbed the blanket he’d been using during their impromptu movie nights from the back of the couch. Only once he was settled beneath it did he reply, “I want to know _everything_.”

“That may take a bit,” warned Ignis. The slight twitch of his lips, however, made it obvious that he wasn’t about to refuse.

“We’ve got time.”

“Yeah,” murmured Gladio, kicking his feet up on the coffee table and folding his arms behind his head. “You got that right. Take it away, Iggy.”

Sighing in exasperation, Ignis adjusted his glasses with a put-upon, “Very well. Now, then… Where to begin?”

“Beginning’s always good,” recommended Noctis sarcastically.

“Capital idea, Noct,” he deadpanned, although there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes that ruined the effect.

Noctis didn’t try to snuff out the warmth that spread through him as he watched Ignis lean back in his seat and clear his throat. If anything, it made him feel like a kid again, transporting him backwards in time to the days when he had held his stuffed Carbuncle in his lap and prepared to listen with rapt attention to one of the stories his friend was so good at reading. It brought a smile to his face in spite of the circumstances, and with a glance at Gladio and Prompto where they were ready to add their own contributions, he could honestly say that there was nowhere else he would rather be. Hammerhead or Insomnia, it didn’t matter—the important thing was that they were together.

And that he was about to get his answers for a change.

“Well, I suppose it goes without saying that Gladio and I are _not_ cousins, and Cor is not our uncle.”

_…This is gonna take a while._

“Yeah, kinda worked that out on my own, Specs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys--the next one is the epilogue! I'm so sad to reach the end of this story, but I'm also beyond grateful for all of your amazing support and feedback. Thank you so much, and see you next week!


	33. Prince Noctis

“Is this really necessary?”

“If you wish to appear as a prince and not a pauper, then yes, it is.”

Noctis sighed, glaring into his bathroom mirror while he watched Ignis’s reflection mess with his hair _again_. It made no sense to him whatsoever that he couldn’t just style it himself, but his chamberlain was adamant: if he was going to attend his twenty-first birthday party as expected, then he was going to do it according to Ignis’s standards.

Honestly, it would have been so much easier to keep things simple, preferably in a place where he wouldn’t have to stand on ceremony or worry about appearances like he did every other hour of the day and night. That was the point, wasn’t it? To enjoy your so-called _special day_ on your own terms? At least, that was how it used to be when he was merely a normal guy who flipped burgers and bussed tables instead of brushing elbows with the elites of society. The impending event that his birthday had become had him appreciating the ones he’d spent in Hammerhead even more than he had in years past. After all, Uncle Cid hadn’t made a huge deal out of the occasion: it was purely a combination of Noctis’s favorite foods, a cake, a few presents, and the people he cared about more than anything in the world if they could manage to get there in time. The lattermost was always the best part, but he’d been happy with pretty much anything so long as he wasn’t forced to be the center of attention. That was where working at the diner had come in handy—being on duty for a few hours meant that he wasn’t subjected to everyone commenting on how _grown-up_ he was getting. Talk about embarrassing.

He never would have dreamed that it could get worse than that, yet here they were, preparing for a party where he would be shoved in front of a bunch of people he barely knew and fawned over as if he had just announced that they were mandating four-course desserts throughout the kingdom. Of course, that was to be expected when you were Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, the heir apparent and all that jazz. It didn’t matter that he would rather have wasted the day in his apartment, playing video games with his friends and eating takeout. (Or what passed for takeout when it was made by the Citadel’s finest chefs. Deliveries were usually frowned upon, even if the king had turned the other way on more than one occasion.) It didn’t matter that he would have chosen relaxing where no one else could see over stuffing himself into a fancy suit and spending the evening on display.

Princes didn’t get that luxury. Their birthdays were national holidays, or they could have been considering all the noise everyone made about them. For a week leading up to the day itself, he’d been on the cover of every magazine and newspaper in Insomnia—not that he hadn’t before, but that had thankfully dwindled to only a couple of appearances each month now that the initial clamor over his arrival had faded a bit. That being the case, Noctis was kind of hoping that the uproar over his next milestone was purely due to the fact that this was his first birthday in the Crown City and not a trend that was likely to continue. If he was lucky, then the whole thing would blow over and he wouldn’t have to deal with the spotlight every single year for the rest of his natural life.

Somehow, he doubted that was going to happen.

There was no escaping this, though. There was no turning back the clock and pretending that nothing had changed, and he wouldn’t want to anyway. This year had been difficult, sure, but he was also pretty damn proud of what he’d managed to accomplish. Between stitching together his trust in his friends and not entirely failing at all of his royal duties, he really had come a long way from where he’d been when he woke up to a new world he hardly recognized. Even though he was already sweating in his suit in anticipation of what was to come, Noctis wouldn’t trade that for anything. He just had to keep reminding himself.

Fortunately, he’d gotten a lot of practice at that since he made the move from Hammerhead to Insomnia, odd as it still felt to think about. There were moments when he couldn’t believe that he’d actually been in the Crown City all this time, that it wasn’t some dream that was bound to end eventually. Technically, this wasn’t even his first birthday at the Citadel. The _party_ was a change—there was only so much celebrating you could do when you were unconscious, after all—but he’d been here regardless. In the intervening months, he’d gone places that hadn’t existed beyond his wildest fantasies and done things he wouldn’t have thought he’d be any good at. Whenever he thought for sure that he was going to fail, whenever he was positive that he would make a mess of things and embarrass King Regis, he somehow skated through and achieved exactly what he intended. Well, maybe not _exactly_ what he intended—he had a feeling Ignis was keeping track of every slip-up he committed so they could reflect on them later and figure out how to do better. Still, he’d done okay. Not great, but okay.

That was why, in spite of his reluctance, Noctis wasn’t dreading tonight’s festivities anywhere near as much as he probably would have last year. If anything, this would be simple compared to his first venture outside the Citadel or the trips he’d taken to Galdin Quay and Lestallum. At least he was in the comfort of his own home here instead of standing in an unfamiliar place while people bowed and kissed his ass.

Besides, he couldn’t deny that it had to do with more than mere duty. Whether he was entirely comfortable with the proceedings or not, he couldn’t very well ditch out when King Regis had personally seen to the preparations for this extravaganza. Noctis wasn’t quite sure what that entailed, but he had to assume that it was a pretty major deal given how much time the king appeared to be spending on it. In fact, Noctis hadn’t seen him a whole lot in the evenings recently, which was strange for them. When the king finished plowing through the meetings and schedules that were organized for him each morning by his own chamberlain, they would ordinarily retire to his chambers to have dinner together and discuss all the things Noctis had no idea how to interpret. There were nights when they would spend hours catching up on any number of topics—business, how Noctis was adjusting, even the random antics he got up to with his friends on the rare occasions when they had a free day to show him the rest of the city. By the time he got back to his room, he’d practically be asleep on his feet, but it was a good kind of exhaustion. It was the sort of weariness where you could smile and say you had accomplished something before you face-planted into your mattress.

This week had been different. This week, apart from their necessary routine, Noctis had hardly seen King Regis. He hadn’t tried to hide what he was up to—he never kept secrets from Noctis now that it would be counterproductive to his safety instead of necessary for it. His insistence that the king didn’t have to go to all this trouble, however, fell on deaf ears. Before he vanished for the evening or when he met Noctis in the morning with bags under his eyes from an insufficient night’s sleep, the king was quick to brush aside his concerns and state that he just hoped Noctis enjoyed the fruits of his labors.

How was he supposed to be ungrateful for _that_? If there was one thing Noctis had learned in the last year, it was that kings didn’t _have_ to do anything for themselves if they didn’t want to. There were retainers all over the Citadel who literally stood around waiting for orders and errands to come their way. Want something? Call for it. Need something? Send someone to get it. When you were royalty, life was simple that way. Not once had Noctis been required to lift a finger unless it was to do what he was being trained for, although he did so anyway since it would have made him feel worthless not to. Yeah, Prompto kept reminding him that there were people to pick up his clothes for him if he wanted to leave them on the floor here—namely Ignis—but Noctis was more of the mind that he would rather take a few minutes to kick them into a corner than earn anyone’s ire—namely _Ignis_.

The point was that it would have been far easier for King Regis to order someone else to come up with an appropriate celebration to mark his twenty-first year, yet he had chosen to take care of it himself. He had chosen to make this special occasion one to remember, which meant Noctis couldn’t possibly tell him that the idea of what was waiting for him in the ballroom downstairs had his heart racing. It was already more than likely that he had figured that out on his own by now: he was positive King Regis could tell what he was thinking half the time. This was something that had to be done if for no other reason than posterity, though, and he was doing his best to make it an event that Noctis wouldn’t hate being a part of. The least he could do was keep his griping to a minimum. It was one night—he could handle it. He was just…overwhelmed.

Surprisingly, Ignis seemed to be, as well. His impatient huff drew Noctis’s attention, and he winced to find his chamberlain staring at his hair as though it had personally affronted him. Noctis would have offered once again to just do it himself, but he was pretty sure that would only make things worse. Ignis’s nerves were hanging by a thread as it was, so igniting his temper wasn’t the best idea in the world if they wanted to stick to his carefully crafted schedule. The minor setbacks they’d suffered in the last few hours alone had left his chamberlain in the kind of mood that got you salad for dinner instead of an actual meal. Beyond the typical battle with his unruly locks (which seemed content to cooperate any day but today), the bespoke suit he was expected to wear to the party hadn’t arrived until late that afternoon instead of the previous evening as planned. He wouldn’t say that the royal tailor had left with his tail between his legs, but if he _could_ have, he _would_ have. Ignis had flayed him up one side and down the other before practically shoving Noctis into his room to change so that he could make sure everything looked the way it was supposed to.

Gladio and Prompto hadn’t stuck around for that part. They’d long since gotten fed up with watching him obsess over Noctis’s appearance and retired to the living room until they were ready to go, which Noctis envied to no end. Unlike them, he had no choice but to stand there and endure Ignis’s critical eye as the latter surveyed the fit of his suit and the swoop of his hair and the angle of his shoulders. (Not straight enough— _never_ straight enough.)

Just when he thought there was nothing else Ignis could possibly take issue with, however, his chamberlain let out a choked exclamation and whirled him around to glare at—

“You have a button coming loose on your jacket.”

Noctis blinked, glancing cautiously between the offending garment and Ignis’s scathing glower. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought his friend was blaming _him_ for that. After all, they’d had this particular discussion before when Noctis insisted that he could mend his own clothes only to discover Ignis raiding his closet after he kept forgetting. He didn’t _mean_ to let it happen; it was just that he had other things to do that got in the way. Like learning how to be a king. And video games.

This time, though, he was in the clear. Ignis was busy cursing under his breath about _incompetent bastards_ and muttering, “It would have been more prudent of me to retrieve the suit myself so that it could be inspected for imperfections when we had more time.”

“You mean, so you could spend all night resewing every button just to be safe?” clarified Noctis, scoffing. “No way.”

“That would be a far better alternative than allowing you to leave this room with inappropriate attire,” Ignis sniffed. His eyes narrowed when Noctis rolled his.

“It’s not that big a deal, Specs. You can fix it later. Nobody’ll notice.”

All things considered, Noctis had to admit that Ignis showed a great deal of restraint in not throttling him on the spot. There was no chance that it was out of agreement, though—he was probably just worried that he wouldn’t find anything to hide the bruises on Noctis’s throat if he tried. Regardless, the way his expression suddenly shuttered was more than enough to tell Noctis that he might as well have suggested burning down the Citadel, as far as Ignis was concerned.

“We cannot have an unkempt prince,” his chamberlain slowly informed him, pulling in a deep breath that spoke volumes of exactly how hard he was working to keep his displeasure in check. It was that more than anything else that stopped Noctis from arguing when he insisted, “I will fetch the necessary materials from my own quarters and return in a moment. Leave the jacket on the bed. And _don’t_ run your fingers through your hair.”

With that, he whirled on his heel and swept from the room like a man on a mission, pointedly ignoring Noctis’s indignant grimace. For a fraction of a second, he considered doing the opposite of what Ignis had instructed out of spite—he _knew_ how to make himself look presentable without needing to be told. Still, he decided against it before he could ruin the almost perfect image staring back at him from the mirror: he had a feeling King Regis wouldn’t appreciate it if he showed up to the party in pieces.

That didn’t stop him from sighing in relief as he trudged into his bedroom, unfastening the buttons of his jacket to toss it on top of his mattress as ordered. Noctis immediately followed, albeit more carefully so that he wouldn’t have to explain how his impeccably pressed suit had gotten a few wrinkles in it. He appreciated what his friend was trying to do, annoying as the process was. It had taken some time and a lot of complaining, but he’d grown accustomed to dressing according to Ignis’s advice. That was his job, after all, and Noctis was usually more than happy to let him do it. They were simply on short fuses today given how important it was that they make a good impression, that was all. Once tomorrow came, things would return to normal. He hoped.  

While he was mostly used to the royal lifestyle he’d had to adopt alongside his title, Noctis still had moments where he would have loved nothing more than to hide under his sheets and never come out again. He was pretty sure that his friends occasionally felt the same, especially when one or all of them tended to accompany him in whatever stories started circulating after he was spotted by anyone with a camera. It was all appearances with those people—how he looked, how he walked, how he presented himself. At this point, he didn’t think he was doing such a bad job anymore, but there would always be days like today when they had to be more aware of the countless eyes that would watch his every move. Gladio and Prompto didn’t have as much to worry about in that respect: they merely followed him around and made sure nobody tried to shove him off a cliff or something. Ignis, on the other hand, was the one who would take the blame if he didn’t exist in a perpetual state of princely perfection. It was no wonder his nerves were fraying.

This was nothing compared to the day he’d been formally introduced to Lucian society, though. If Ignis was a little rough around the edges now, he’d been a mess back then, which was saying something when he never lost his cool. Although the event was televised rather than staged in front of actual people, Noctis had practically been shaking in his fancy shoes while he stood there and listened to the king tell his— _their_ —subjects that Noctis was officially going to be assuming his duties as the crown prince of Lucis. The immaculate styling Ignis had bestowed upon him hadn’t been enough to dispel his own anxiety; the sole saving grace in that situation was that he hadn’t had to say a word. All he’d been responsible for was standing up straight, smiling politely into the camera, and nodding his head at the right cues. It was a good thing, too, because he doubted he would have been able to handle more than that. He hadn’t been prepared for the outpouring of attention and affection he’d received afterward from strangers who hadn’t heard his name in years, either. His face had been plastered all over newspapers and magazines and news programs—the king’s address had been played and replayed on every television and radio station in the kingdom, or so it seemed. Whenever he left the Citadel, whether it was to walk around within the perimeter of the gates or explore the city with his friends, people flocked to him.

It was unnerving, the way he had gone from being a complete nobody to the center of Lucian life overnight. That had definitely been an experience, and while he could say that he was gradually growing used to it, Noctis still enjoyed the time he got to spend away from all the eyes and expectations and responsibilities. The special memories he’d made in the last year, the ones that truly mattered, hadn’t happened when he was surrounded by well-wishers and retainers.

That reminder brought a smile to his face, and Noctis reached into the drawer of his bedside table to retrieve the journal that he hadn’t thought he’d use when Luna gave it to him. Admittedly, he had done his best to stick to his guns there: he’d hidden it from sight longer than he cared to admit, unable to face in reality what his nightmares made unavoidable. As with just about everything else he’d encountered at the Citadel, however, Noctis had eventually overcome his aversion. It had started with merely sneaking a guilty peek now and then to make sure it was still where he’d left it, and before he knew what was happening, he was stuffing pictures inside until half of the pages were full of the countless new memories he was making in Insomnia.

Like his first day on the job. Now _that_ had been something.

Noctis grimaced when he opened the notebook to the second leaf and got a glimpse of himself from a couple of weeks after he’d woken up in his new life. That was when he had finally gathered the courage to tell King Regis that he was ready for whatever he was meant to be learning, even if he had been exaggerating a bit of the confidence he had tried to inject into his confirmation. As such, his first council meeting hadn’t gone _terribly_ —in hindsight, it could have been a whole lot worse. He knew he hadn’t exactly made the best impression on the king’s advisors at the time, though. That wasn’t to say that he’d done anything he shouldn’t have or wasn’t supposed to; it was more that he hadn’t done anything _period_. He’d been so intimidated by all those faces he’d only ever seen on the news before, the ones that literally governed the entire kingdom and were therefore _way_ above him—until he remembered that he was a prince. The fact that they treated him like one threw him off, and the best he’d been able to manage was a few polite greetings before he was thankfully allowed to retreat to his chair at the council table and shut his mouth.

The drawback? His seat had been at the king’s right hand, so everybody’s eyes had vacillated between the two of them for pretty much the entire two hours they’d spent in that stuffy chamber. It was an experience that Noctis would rather have forgotten in favor of focusing on the contributions he had made in later gatherings, but Prompto had seen to it that he could do both. While King Regis had assigned him to Noctis’s personal retinue, his friend’s job wasn’t merely to keep him safe. No, he had been tasked with documenting Noctis’s journey from zero to princeling, and he definitely took it more seriously than Noctis ever thought possible.

But he hadn’t gotten rid of this picture, no matter how embarrassed he felt just looking at it again. It was good to see how far he’d come, right? Ignis liked to tell him that remembering where he’d started would make his progress that much more satisfying, and he couldn’t deny that he had a point. The tightness around his eyes in the photo, the way he’d sat so straight that he was too rigid in his seat—Noctis wasn’t like that anymore. He wasn’t as afraid that he was going to make some unforgivable mistake by breathing too deeply or coughing while someone was speaking; he didn’t monitor his every move as though people might get offended if he shifted his foot in the wrong direction. There was some comfort to be found in that spot he had inhabited for the last year, a sort of belonging that he hadn’t noticed slowly creeping up on him until that moment. A large part of it was due to King Regis and Ignis’s presence, not that they would ever take the credit for it. Neither of them had left him in the dark, even if it meant that Ignis typed out clarifications to what was being said on his phone and showed him under the table so that he didn’t fall too far behind. Even the king, who was doing him a favor as it was by inviting him to the proceedings, had obviously been keeping things a little simpler for him back then.

When they’d finally finished for the day, Noctis recalled that his head had been swimming and all he’d wanted to do was return to his room to collapse somewhere. Napping for another month hadn’t seemed like such a bad thing in the wake of that stressful first encounter with his future, although he’d quashed the thought as soon as it had occurred to him. It wasn’t hard when his exhaustion had been accompanied by a sense of achievement that more than rivaled his first day at Takka’s. Then King Regis had asked Noctis to dine with him, ostensibly to debrief even if the king had to know that he saw right through his excuse. Looking back on it, Noctis sort of wished that he had a picture of that, of the pride in King Regis’s eyes as he’d told Noctis over dinner that he had done well. It would have been another nice _first_ for his journal: the first time the king had been truly proud of him—the first time he’d had a _reason_ to be.

But not the last. Absolutely not the last.

Rolling his eyes at the sentimental tears he had to blink away, Noctis flipped the page and grinned widely at the next photo. His first day officially acting as the prince of Lucis might have been daunting, but the first camping trip he’d taken with the guys was anything but.

To this day, it still surprised him that the king hadn’t insisted he take more manpower with him than just Ignis, Gladio, and Prompto. It wasn’t that they weren’t more than enough to protect him if things went downhill, of course; they were a hell of a lot better trained than he was in spite of the lessons he took from his Shield every day to catch up on what he should have been learning all along. Even so, they were leaving the Citadel—they were going out into the city where anyone could take a shot at him if they really wanted to. (If they didn’t have their noses pressed up against the proverbial glass when it came to those magazines, anyway.) King Regis hadn’t said a word about it, though. When Noctis told him that it would only be the four of them, he’d nodded with a genuine smile and said that he hoped they had a good time. That was it. There were no passive-aggressive, veiled attempts to get him to take more guards with him. There were no orders to stay at the palace given his title and position. They simply… _went_. That was what made it even better than he could have imagined.

At the time, he hadn’t really thought of camping as something they could do for fun. Growing up, he’d always heard the hunters talking about it as though it was a necessity—stopping at an outpost wasn’t in the cards if you were out in the middle of nowhere and didn’t want to run into daemons trying to find civilization. Why did a prince have to do that, then, when he had a perfectly good bed waiting for him at the Citadel? They wouldn’t have electricity or video games where his Shield wanted to take him, so seriously, what was the point? Gladio had been adamant that he should see what it was like to spend the night beneath the stars without waking up to sand in every orifice, however, so there wasn’t much use in arguing. He’d lost before they even got started.

Maybe that hadn’t been such a bad thing. Contrary to what he’d initially believed, camping was actually a lot of fun. Well, when he wasn’t rolling his eyes at Ignis and Gladio’s reprimands over his apparently failed attempts to do basically _everything_. After all, that was how he’d gotten this picture—Prompto had taken a slew of them, but this was his favorite. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes after they’d arrived at the campsite, which was inside Insomnia while simultaneously far enough from the city that they couldn’t see the Citadel in the distance. Out there, it felt as though they were really in the wilderness, not a few miles from civilization with a bustling metropolis surrounding them just out of sight. Besides green grass and some trees, there had been nothing standing between them and the boundless nature Gladio had been going on and on about for every minute of the two hours it had taken them to get there. Noctis hadn’t said so then, but there was something peaceful about it that set his mind at ease when it had been full of too much information before.

Setting up camp was the hardest part, although Noctis figured he should have expected as much when his Shield was so particular about the details that he nearly put Ignis to shame. The tent had to be in the right spot; the fire had to be close to where Ignis erected his cooking station, but not so close that he’d set his coat alight in the process. The chairs Noctis carried in the picture needed to be settled around the campfire in a half-moon, all of them facing west. Not east— _west_. That was supposedly the most important part, since camping was all about watching the sun set from the comfort of your own uncomfortable camping chairs. In the photograph, Gladio was looking up from where he’d been hammering in the supports for the tent, pointing to where he wanted them while Noctis walked in the exact opposite direction. Prompto had expertly captured the moment he imitated his Shield’s grousing behind the latter’s back, and Noctis chuckled a bit under his breath to see his irritation displayed in the picture as if he’d planned it that way.

The next few sheets were all filled with photographs from the same trip, albeit of much happier scenes than that. There he was with Gladio, his Shield teaching him how to fish while Ignis tapped at his phone screen nearby. He’d already downloaded about a million recipes he could try with whatever they captured and was alternating between reading them off and congratulating Noctis on his admittedly tiny acquisitions. Then there was a selfie he’d taken with Prompto, who couldn’t seem to help himself when the opportunity arose. It was definitely one of Noctis’s favorites, not that there was any shortage of them now that his friend tended to print out every single picture on his camera. With the water in the background, little diamonds glittering off the surface in the afternoon light, it was honestly the perfect shot. They were as content as they could be, and there was just enough mischief in his own eyes that he could remember shoving Prompto into the lake the second he was done snapping the photo.

Ignis was handing him a plate of the most amazing thing he’d ever tasted in his life, and that was including the fancy food he’d had at the Citadel.

He and Gladio were silhouetted in the entrance of the tent, playing cards while Ignis cleaned the dishes.

Noctis’s face was turned up to watch the sun sink below the horizon, open-mouthed and enamored and idiotic as hell.

The last picture had him pausing a moment, his fingers brushing the shiny paper reverentially. Despite all the fun they’d had, all the laughs they’d shared, and all the pranks they’d played on each other—while every instant made Noctis consider it one of the greatest days in his entire life, this was the photo that really brought it home for him. Prompto had snapped one final selfie before they put out the lantern and went to bed, which Noctis couldn’t recall if he tried. He’d already been fast asleep, curled up in the corner of the tent with his cards tipping precariously from his hands. Somehow, his head had landed on Ignis’s knee and his right foot was tucked against Gladio’s side, but neither of them appeared at all bothered by it. Gladio hadn’t shoved him off, nor had Ignis woken him so that he could change clothes the way princes were probably supposed to even out in the woods. They’d simply kept playing, both of them smirking deviously when Prompto positioned Noctis’s free hand to look like he was picking his nose. Those old injuries hadn’t been there anymore; a couple of months after he’d woken up, he hadn’t felt the same bitter animosity towards them that he hadn’t thought would ever go away once upon a time. They were just his friends—his brothers—and he’d been luckier than words could describe to spend a couple of days with them as if they were back in Hammerhead with no royal responsibilities to uphold. It had been a night to remember.

There were so many of them that he’d lost count as the weeks and months passed. It had become their _thing_ to take trips out to the campsite every so often; Noctis suspected that the king had purchased the place purely for them since they never ran into anyone else out there. It was either that or he rented it so that they wouldn’t have to worry about keeping up appearances when they were just trying to have a good time.

That had been his foremost concern in the next photo, and he nearly cringed at the memory of his first journey back to Hammerhead after he’d been introduced (or _re_ introduced, as it happened) to the place he now called home. Like he’d hoped, the king had no problem with him visiting Uncle Cid if he wasn’t bogged down with lessons and duties—King Regis had even accompanied them on a few occasions. In those instances, he tended to remain in the shadows as much as humanly possible. He would dress in some of the most absurdly _mundane_ clothing Noctis had ever seen, almost remarkable in just how unremarkable he looked, and avoid socializing with anyone who wasn’t his uncle or Cindy. While Noctis and his friends wandered the outpost like they had in the old days, he would stay at the garage and talk to Uncle Cid. More often than not, they’d sit in the apartment for hours on end, chatting about things Noctis could neither remember nor understand. He’d learned the basics, at least: Uncle Cid had been one of King Regis’s closest companions when they were younger and worked at the Citadel as his retainer and mechanic. After Ardyn was banished from the kingdom, he had been in the king’s company to explore the hellhole the mage had been using for his experiments. It was the sort of adventure Noctis had pictured his uncle going on as a little kid who was incapable of imagining that Uncle Cid _wasn’t_ a hero. Knowing that he’d been spot on? Yeah, that was a pretty sweet deal.

Even sweeter was the fact that no one in Hammerhead treated him any differently than they had before no matter how many times his face flashed across the television screen in the diner. It seemed to take a bit of effort for everyone to suppress the displays of deference he was subjected to in Insomnia, but he didn’t really blame them when they were just as unsure of proper protocol in this situation as he was. Did they call him by his name or by his title? Did they act like they always had or treat him like the future monarch he was destined to be? Those were the questions he hadn’t wanted to give much thought when they’d left the Citadel that first morning, too afraid of what the answers would be. He’d gotten lucky, however, and they’d all chosen the former. If they hadn’t, Gladio probably would have persuaded them to do so in that awkwardly intimidating manner he liked to tout whenever he needed to get something done. Either way, it meant Noctis could buy something from the convenience store or simply sit around Takka’s for as long as he wanted without anyone accosting him for impromptu interviews or pictures or the random declarations of undying love that he received when he mustered the fortitude to stray into the Crown City. Even the hunters, who had always worked closely with representatives of the king, hadn’t deviated from their usual banter. To be honest, it was actually a little embarrassing how _normal_ they’d been around him, poking fun at the pocket watch that he _did_ have sitting out on his dresser and everything.

They never believed him when he said he still had it, which was why Noctis had taken to keeping a picture of his old treasures in the journal as well. Yeah, it was probably kind of weird to just hold onto random photos of a room he saw every day, yet there was something comforting about knowing that all of his favorite things from when he was growing up were here with him. Instead of shoving most of them in a drawer the way he used to in the apartment, where he hadn’t had room to move much less store stuff, he’d been able to spread them out a little more. The earth gemstone Nyx had gotten him for his seventh birthday was displayed on his bedside table, polished up so that it gleamed brightly in the light that streamed in through his window every morning. All of his Oracle Ascension Coins were cushioned in black velvet and framed where they hung above his bed; each one was different from the others, whether due to the symbols fading over time or the tiny chips and scratches they had gotten on their long journey from Tenebrae. Everything else was stored in a glass case against the wall by the door, his stuffed Carbuncle situated in a place of honor on top. Noctis would never say it aloud, especially not when the king was around, but there were definitely days when he worried that having it out was at least slightly childish. He was a prince, and if anyone caught sight of his old toy, they would more than likely wonder what the hell was wrong with him. Luckily, he hadn’t had to test that theory yet, so he attempted to put it out of his mind as much as possible for the time being. What everyone else thought didn’t matter anyway, not when his first best friend had gotten him through some of the toughest trials he’d ever encountered.

Noctis wasn’t ashamed to say that one of those occasions had been more recent than was probably acceptable at his age, not that he would have let anyone tell him so the day he’d collected the next picture in his journal. It had taken him a while to decide whether he wanted to put it in the notebook or not, as a matter of fact. For a few months, he’d struggled to stick to happy memories before he realized that some of the unhappier ones were just as important.

Visiting Crowe in Galahd, for example.

That trip had been a difficult one for a lot of reasons, not least of which that it hadn’t only been him and the guys. No, while the king hadn’t mandated it himself, Nyx refused to let them go without accompanying them.

A year after everything that had happened, his shoulders weren’t fully healed and apparently never would be; he couldn’t raise his arms above his head anymore, let alone fight the way Noctis now knew he was trained to. As captain of the Kingsglaive, he had to make do with the skills he _did_ still have in his arsenal, which were plentiful enough that he didn’t need to worry about not keeping up. He’d almost single-handedly rebuilt the most elite force in Lucis, and although he couldn’t train them on his own, he was more than capable of beating them into shape. Noctis had a feeling King Regis wouldn’t have dismissed him out of loyalty alone, but his achievements had solidified the fact that he wasn’t going anywhere without putting up one hell of a fight.

As such, he hadn’t batted an eye when Noctis approached him a few weeks into his princely duties and said that he wanted to go to Galahd. He hadn’t balked at the prospect of returning to the home he hadn’t seen in decades or facing the loss that Noctis hadn’t gotten a chance to at that point. Instead, Nyx had simply nodded and asked when they were leaving. Hell, he’d even driven for them—Ignis had called shotgun while Noctis squeezed into the back with Gladio and Prompto. Having all of them at his side, in hindsight, had been what gave him the strength to go through with what he thought had to be one of the most difficult feats he’d accomplished since he came to Insomnia.

Maybe it made him selfish, but that was why Noctis had asked to see Crowe on his own. Galahd was a pretty amazing village: it was a bit like Lestallum in that it was by no means huge while still boasting of quite a few sights to visit. Noctis hadn’t felt too bad, then, about requesting that they do just that and let him have a few minutes to deal with his grief alone. They’d already had their chances to say goodbye, after all. At the time, he’d hoped that the least they could do was offer him the same courtesy.

The only one who couldn’t was Gladio—no surprise there. His Shield had been glued to his side since he’d woken up, and Noctis had mostly accepted that he would never be left entirely without company in public again. Although he wouldn’t have believed it at first, there was no arguing that they didn’t have a good reason, even if it _was_ irritatingly inconvenient. Back then, when he was so freshly _not_ cursed, he hadn’t had the nerve to say anything about it anyway. So, with Gladio standing within sight but thankfully out of earshot, he’d gotten to say goodbye to the person who had taught him almost everything he knew.

It had been…anticlimactic. He couldn’t think of any other way to describe the empty sensation that had settled in his gut as he’d stood in front of a glorified rock and talked to it as though Crowe could somehow hear him. He knew how this worked: if she did have ears out wherever she was, then they probably weren’t turned in his direction. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from letting the words—and a few tears—flow that afternoon. There was so much he’d wanted to tell her, so much he hadn’t said when it would have meant something, yet her betrayal hadn’t crossed his mind once. Ultimately, it wasn’t about what she hadn’t done, but the gratitude he wouldn’t be able to express for everything she _had_. Without her, the leap from outpost nobody to cultured prince would have been far more difficult than it was. (The latter was a work in progress, but hey, it was a start.) Without her, he might not have taken a chance on his best friends or his job at the diner. Looking back on it, she’d been a huge part of every major decision he’d made ever since he was a kid. She and Uncle Cid had spent so long working together, constructing plans, guiding him along the right path when he wasn’t sure where it would take him. Now that he knew the whole story, he was well aware that his safety had been in her hands, just as it had been in Nyx’s.

Betrayal meant nothing when he had so many things to thank her for.

And he had. He’d sat there for so long that Gladio had come and make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep, which would have been majorly creepy considering where they were. It hadn’t occurred to him to hide his tears, nor had his Shield tried to placate him with useless platitudes. He’d merely waited until Noctis was ready to go, unaware until a few weeks later that Prompto had gotten a picture of both of them standing before Crowe’s grave, Gladio’s hand on his shoulder while he bowed his head in silent, final farewell. That night, Carbuncle had let Noctis bring his stuffed counterpart to bed with them; he hadn’t even gotten upset when Noctis kept the latter closer and buried his face in its synthetic fur like he hadn’t done for a while.

The feeling he’d gotten then? The proximity he’d felt to his past, even if it was so far away that he’d never truly find it again? Noctis was inundated with it as he turned page after page, smiling at some memories and fighting tears at others so that Ignis wouldn’t return to discover that he needed to wash the traitorous stains off his face. Every tender encounter with King Regis, every gaming marathon with Prompto, every one of Ignis’s meals cooked in Noctis’s own kitchenette, every sparring session with Gladio—they were all represented in this conglomeration of thoughts and emotions he’d been collecting over the last year. He’d never admit it, but he even had a special spot at the back reserved just for Luna.

Well, not _just_ for Luna. And it really wasn’t reserved or anything—that was simply where the photos he’d taken with her on their trip to Tenebrae a month ago had gone. No big deal.

Noctis hadn’t expected the king to take him out of the country so soon, but there wasn’t much choice when they were busy attempting to put the pieces of their alliance with Luna’s nation back together. (It was more than he could say for Niflheim, whose provisional government was slowly but surely running it into the ground.) That wasn’t necessarily something that Noctis had to be involved in, though; he wasn’t in any position to make deals or broker peace. King Regis, however, had insisted that his presence was just as important as his own. Lucis would be his to rule someday, and as such, he should have a hand in solidifying their friendships—or so he said. By the time they got to Tenebrae and stepped up to meet its monarch, Noctis had a feeling he was there for moral support rather than to add perspective to their negotiations.

It went without saying that things hadn’t exactly gone to plan. Now that Noctis finally understood what had happened twenty years ago, he got why Ravus Nox Fleuret, king of Tenebrae and royal pain in the ass, had glared at him like an annoying pebble that was stuck in his shoe. Impressions didn’t matter with that guy. His expression didn’t change whether you made a joke or insulted his mother—which was a terrible idea, given the circumstances. He’d lightened up a bit once he saw that Noctis wasn’t entirely incompetent, but it was pretty obvious that they would never be anywhere near the point where they could call each other _friends_ beyond the political sort. They just…didn’t mesh right. Where Noctis tended to be a little more easygoing in spite of the nerves that frequently had him rethinking every move he made on foreign soil, Ravus was wound tighter than Ignis, which would have been impressive on anyone else. Instead, his snippy, condescending demeanor rubbed Noctis the wrong way every time he opened his mouth. It had been all he could manage sometimes not to lash out at him when he unrepentantly snapped at King Regis for absolutely no reason. The latter never appeared to mind—according to Ignis, it was guilt more than anything else that kept his tongue in check—and he had pointed out on more than one occasion that Noctis shouldn’t take Ravus’s jibes to heart.

“Some wounds,” he’d mused after dinner their first night at the manor, “run too deep to heal.”

That didn’t make it any easier to stomach, though, and Luna had done her level best to keep the two of them apart as often as possible. Luckily, that meant hours of wandering around the beautiful grounds of Fenestala Manor, which was certainly no hardship. As a matter of fact, Noctis had felt more at home there than anywhere else in Tenebrae. It was hard not to when the place looked exactly like the glade where they’d met in his dream world. Those familiar blue flowers— _sylleblossoms_ , as he’d learned—were blooming from hill to vale, and there were even some hints of ruins in the distance where ancient parts of the castle had rotted away to nothing. Strolling along with Luna, talking about everything and nothing all at once, had miraculously transported him to the sole plus side he’d ever found in that curse.

Of course, there was always the distinct _downside_ of constantly having his retainers underfoot. Gladio didn’t like the idea of him being left practically defenseless where Ravus could get at him, and Ignis had intruded simply to keep _Gladio_ from getting too close. Prompto practically worshipped the ground Luna walked on, which had become something of an inside joke between them given that he hadn’t even stared at _Cindy_ with that much admiration. (Which was really saying something. Noctis was positive there were still drool stains in the carpet of the apartment that they hadn’t been able to get out.) That being said, he had so many photos of himself with Luna that it was almost insane. This one showed them sitting in the grass while the sun set; that one followed them as they meandered through the flowerbeds. He would never fathom how, but Prompto had even captured a shot of them at the most awkward possible moment—when they’d left and Luna had leaned in to kiss his cheek the way she had when she departed from the Citadel. It wasn’t any major thing, although he would’ve thought they’d announced an engagement or something from the smile on King Regis’s face. They were just friends. Friends who weren’t afraid of showing a bit of intimacy. It wasn’t like he hadn’t hugged Gladio before, right?

_…Let’s not even go there_ , Noctis thought with both an inward _and_ outward grimace. The absolute last thing he wanted was to associate their relationship with the one that had started through necessity in an imaginary world of his own making.

Wasn’t that just it, though? That wasn’t the only world he’d created: everything he did, everything he _was_ , he’d crafted himself. Sure, he’d had plenty of help from the king and his friends, and there was no escaping the reality that this had been his destiny whether he’d wanted it or not. When push came to shove, however, Noctis had taken the reins in hand and molded his own path. _He_ decided who he would share his life with; _he_ decided how he was going to spend his free time, whether it was playing games with his friends or shaking hands with a bunch of kids at the arcade he and Prompto had taken to frequenting when they could get away from their duties for a while. It had been his choice to start up an outreach program between the Glaives and orphans in the Crown City who needed someone to look up to. Noctis had been the one to propose opening a three-story maze where kids could hunt for so-called _buried treasure_. (It was actually a bunch of antiques and trinkets that people donated, but hey, it was fun to pretend.)

Those were _his_ accomplishments, and his life was his own to lead. He didn’t need dreams or curses when he could claim that victory, for whatever it was worth.

What he did need was to snap the hell out of it before he got all emotional and made an idiot out of himself at his own birthday party. Fortunately for him, Ignis always seemed to show up at precisely the right moment.

And, as always, he read Noctis like a book.

There was something to be said for the depth of Ignis’s resolve that he was able to set aside his own insecurities about tonight in order to put Noctis first. It had nothing to do with him being a prince, either: it was all about their brotherhood. Big brothers were supposed to look out for the younger ones as much as they tormented them, after all; since Gladio tended to do more of the latter, it was only fitting that Ignis handled the former. That was why, even though Noctis rolled his eyes, he didn’t comment when Ignis came to sit beside him and peered over his shoulder at the notebook where he’d closed it in his lap. True to form, he didn’t address what he knew was hidden inside—Noctis hadn’t shown them, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

“It was quite thoughtful of Lady Lunafreya to offer you such a gift,” he pointed out instead, not for the first time.

Rather than remark on that or the significant tone Ignis used when he mentioned it, Noctis simply shrugged a shoulder and evaded, “You know you can call her Luna, right?”

“To do so would be inappropriate.”

“Even though she told you to herself.”

“Indeed.”

Snorting, Noctis shook his head but decided not to tease his chamberlain about his borderline ridiculous formalities. Even if it wouldn’t end in an argument he had never and would never win, he didn’t get the opportunity as Ignis provided a worthy distraction from both his anxiety over the party and the emotions that had choked him up when he’d unwisely decided to sort through his memories. Noctis _called_ watching him sew buttons a _worthy distraction_ , anyway, but that was probably overstating things. What really drew him from his thoughts was the fact that Ignis did so in record time, which meant it was barely a few minutes before he was unceremoniously shoved back into his suit and deemed ready for public consumption.

_Awesome._

Ordinarily, he would have said that his first test was passing muster with Gladio and Prompto. They were the only ones willing to tell him if he looked stupid in whatever getup Ignis put together for him, even if the latter was positive that he’d dressed appropriately for the tasks he was assigned for the day. That was one of the many burdens of ruling, apparently: uncomfortable clothing literally came with the job. King Regis had obviously tried his best to fill Noctis’s closet with things that wouldn’t be too far out of his element, and he had been given a hefty stipend to purchase some outfits that suited his own tastes once he felt up to braving the public, but that didn’t save him from occasionally needing to swallow his pride and put up with a few hours of merciless itching—and ribbing.

That was how Noctis knew something was up the moment he stepped into the living room: Gladio and Prompto didn’t have a thing to say. Not one.

It didn’t take long to figure out why.

“Gladio,” Noctis sighed, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow in exasperation, “what are you doing?”

“Nothin’,” grunted his Shield. He didn’t raise his eyes from the glaring contest he was desperately trying to win over Carbuncle, who was perched a few feet away on the counter. It wasn’t the first time Noctis had seen them squaring off like this, the former Dream Guardian preparing to pounce while Gladio silently dared him to, and he doubted it would be the last. Both of them were stubborn as hell, and that was before Noctis counted the fresh pastries Ignis had baked last night stacked on a plate between them.

A plate that was apparently going to be the start of yet another war.

Ignis didn’t bother to take responsibility for the latest battle between Shield and erstwhile mage, though. Rather, he huffed impatiently and inquired, “Must you antagonize him at every turn?”

That made Gladio laugh, although it wasn’t nearly as humorous as Prompto clearly found the situation. He was too busy snapping pictures of the standoff to be of much help.

“It’s the _rat_ that’s antagonizing _me_ ,” Gladio grumbled, waving Carbuncle aside to reach for a pastry. This had to have been going on for a while: his Shield only resorted to that old nickname when he was pretty steamed.

That never really mattered where Carbuncle was concerned, however. He offered no indication that he gave a damn about Gladio’s mood—but the epithet had his tail standing nearly straight up in the air.

Which was why Noctis wasn’t at all taken aback when his Shield let out a wordless exclamation of surprise, irritation, and pain a moment later. Gladio was tough, but not even he could ignore Carbuncle’s teeth sinking into his finger.

“You little—”

“Did it ever occur to you,” interjected Ignis as the former mage leapt on the dropped dessert like Prompto on a photo op, “that you will catch more flies with honey than vinegar?”

Gladio glowered bitterly at him and deadpanned, “You don’t catch flies. You squish ‘em.”

“And I think I get why he doesn’t like you now,” lilted Noctis, retrieving his own pastry after running his fingers through Carbuncle’s fur in nonverbal encouragement.

Considering the positively _smug_ glance his furry companion shot his Shield, Noctis had a feeling he also knew why the latter wasn’t his biggest fan as well. Noctis wasn’t sure what it was, but the only thing Gladio and Carbuncle had ever agreed on was their taste in food. The problem was that that caused as many fights as it solved. There were few things scarier than Gladio’s face when Carbuncle got into the stash of Cup Noodles Noctis kept in his apartment for their post-training snack.

Prompto, on the other hand, ate their rivalry up in a very different way—one that Noctis knew spelled trouble the moment he spotted that mischievous grin of his poking out from beneath his camera.

“Aww,” he cooed, “Gladio’s just jealous you don’t treat _him_ like that, Noct. Gotta spread the love, man!”

Noctis blinked, his mouth too full to speak as both he and his Shield glanced at where his free hand was busy scratching Carbuncle behind the ears. When their eyes met, he could tell what Gladio was going to say long before he actually muttered the words.

“Touch me and you’re dead.”

Quirking an eyebrow, Noctis swallowed and sarcastically observed, “Isn’t that against your code or something?”

“Shield’s privilege,” he retorted gruffly. “If anyone gets to kill you, it’ll be me.”

_Typical Gladio_ , he sighed to himself, although his exasperation wasn’t enough to dampen the smirk that involuntarily stretched across his lips. A year ago, when the changes he’d undergone were still fresh and he was trying to get used to the new dimensions of his friendships, the mere mention of a Shield’s duty was enough to put Noctis off his lunch. After all, how was he supposed to listen to that stuff without reevaluating everything that Gladio had ever done for him? It was different with Ignis and Prompto: even though Noctis knew they wouldn’t hesitate for a second, their jobs didn’t require them to sacrifice their lives purely so that his remained intact. Their jobs didn’t mean forsaking everything they might want to be just so that they could remain at his side. Gladio had a choice, yes—if he didn’t want to be Shield, he could step down anytime. That would be unprecedented, and he was too proud of his position to ever do it, but he had the option. Regardless, there was an untold wealth of guilt that had risen up in Noctis’s chest every time he was reminded that that was essentially what one of his best friends had been relegated to: brick wall. Defender.

Expendable ally.

_Not on my watch._

That was the real reason he had thrown himself into training with the type of vigor that Gladio had wanted him to show for the last fifteen years. If there was any chance that he could put off the day they’d find out if his Shield really was as good as everyone told him, then he’d do it without question. He already had enough on his conscience; he didn’t need to add losing his brother to the list.

And Gladio wasn’t stupid despite the jokes he and Prompto made to the contrary: he knew damn well that Noctis didn’t _enjoy_ learning how to fight so much as he was doing it out of necessity. There was no way he would wake up early on the weekend otherwise. That in itself had strengthened their bond until, to Noctis’s surprise, he’d actually come around to the idea of Gladio being his Shield—or, at least, it didn’t bother him quite as much as it had at the beginning. It was one of those things that he couldn’t change, so he wasn’t about to dwell on it if he could _do_ something about it instead. Ignis had always said as much, and so had the king on more occasions than he could keep track of. So, that was his mission, his goal amidst all the other tasks he’d accepted when he took on his position. Noctis was doing everything he could to ensure that, if the unthinkable _did_ happen, he would be able to counter it before Gladio had to lay down his life. That was the least he could do after everything his best friend had done for him.

It wasn’t Gladio’s life they were pondering for now, though. Hopefully, they’d never have to.

“If you’re going to kill me, can you do it _before_ the party?” he sighed as he forced those thoughts to the back of his mind where they belonged.

The sneer he was subjected to more than answered his question, but Gladio still saw fit to reply, “Ain’t gonna tick off all your fangirls by keeping ‘em from getting their pictures of you in that tux.”

“You’d be doing me a favor,” wheedled Noctis, only partially joking. As flattered as he was by the attention, there was something to be said for _not_ imagining what girls did with those magazines once they bought them.

“Not likely. Iggy would bring you back just so he could kill you himself for ruining your outfit.”

A glance at Ignis told Noctis that yeah, that was pretty on point. After all the effort he’d put into making Noctis more than simply presentable for tonight, he didn’t want to know what would happen if something came along to ruin it all.

It was probably a good thing, then, that his chamberlain chose that moment to remind them that they were running late as it was. Noctis would have been tempted to have some kind of accident if he didn’t, like _accidentally_ dropping a pastry on himself or _accidentally_ letting Carbuncle leave a trail of white fur on his sleeve as he usually did when he hopped up to sit on his shoulders. It wouldn’t get him out of the party itself, nor would he want it to (not entirely, anyway), but at least he’d have an excuse to find a less stuffy suit for the occasion.

There wasn’t any time for that, though, so he merely nodded in silence and followed his retinue out the door with a quick wave to Carbuncle. He was accustomed to the nerves that accompanied him all the way to the elevator; he could almost call the roiling of his stomach normal. At this point, it was honestly no different from any other time he left his apartment. Whether it was to spend a day shadowing the king or wandering around the city, there was a weight that dropped onto his shoulders at the realization that he was being watched. His every move would be scrutinized, and if he didn’t measure up to the lofty expectations he knew people had for him, then his entire future—and King Regis’s legacy—would be destroyed. Months ago, there had been days when it was more than he could take, and he’d dragged his feet in order to postpone the moment when he would have to leave the relative safety of his chambers and descend into the hustle and bustle of the Citadel below.

That was then, however. Now, Noctis was used to soldiering through the nausea, the anxiety, the fear that everything he said was wrong. It came with the territory, after all, so there was no escaping it no matter how hard he tried. Living his life meant dealing with it, and as they stepped into the corridor that led to the ballroom, Noctis took a deep breath and forced himself to do exactly that. This was just another day; his party was merely another event. Later, once he had done his duty and showed the proper appreciation for what the king had prepared for him, he would be able to sink back into that place in his mind and home where he could just be _Noctis_. He hadn’t lost that part of him like he’d originally feared—he simply realized that there was a time and place for it, as with everything else.

Right now, standing in the entrance of the ballroom and nodding tersely to Gladio before his Shield moved to open the doors, this was the time and place for _Prince_ Noctis. It was the time and place to walk tall and be the person that the king was teaching him to be every single day.

So, Noctis felt marginally ashamed when his mouth fell open in an incredibly _un_ princely manner at the sight that awaited them inside.

When King Regis told him that he was planning a party befitting one of his station, Noctis had been certain that it would be a bunch of stuffed shirts he’d never met standing around with champagne and toasting his future government. That was the only sort of gathering that came to mind, being a prince and all. Besides, that was pretty much what he saw at every council meeting, minus the drinking and the proverbial pats on the back. They’d been welcoming and congratulated him on anything even mildly arduous that he achieved, but there was a wall between them. The sense of duty he’d once thought bound his friends to him instead of genuine sentiment _did_ exist amongst the council, and it was painfully obvious that if it weren’t for their chosen profession, they probably wouldn’t have given Noctis the time of day. Maybe it was a little immature of him, yet he hadn’t been able to muster much excitement when _that_ was what he had expected.

This, however, was something else entirely. He couldn’t even begin to find the words for the world of light and color that greeted them when he stepped through the door, his friends flanking him, and gawped at the decorations the king had set up just for _him_. It was a hell of a lot fancier than anything he’d ever seen back in Hammerhead, not that that was much of a surprise, yet there was a cheerfulness to it that didn’t really fit with the whole regal solemnity Ignis had been grooming him for. Round tables lined the room, covered in exquisite cloth that shimmered in various shades of silver against a backdrop of black satin; there were enough chairs settled around each to comfortably seat one person and a few friends, not the enormous crowds that he would have thought would line up to eat with him. Tapestries hung in graceful arcs from the center of the ceiling to the walls on every side, embroidered with silver stars and little golden moons that reflected the warm lights situated in the middle of every table beneath.

Most amazingly, the hordes of people he had assumed would be invited were conspicuously absent. Instead, retainers that he both knew and didn’t congregated around the room, and a few of the diplomats he had gotten to know over the course of the last year were scattered here and there amongst the various council members in attendance. They numbered just enough to make him sweat a bit, although their presence was nowhere near as overwhelming as he’d feared it would be. In fact, they didn’t even look up at him or interrupt their conversations to wish him a happy birthday. Their attention was entirely— _carefully_ —focused on their own business, which was exactly as Noctis liked it.

He was so astonished at the display that he didn’t realize for a moment that not all the guests were the same old farts he spent most of his days with. There were actually fewer of them than he had pictured, their places taken by familiar faces that filled his chest with warmth instead of anxiety.

Uncle Cid was slouched over one of the tables to the right of the entrance, eyeing the dancefloor with the same skepticism Noctis had felt when he spotted it and looking distinctly uncomfortable in the suit he’d donned for the occasion. That must have been courtesy of the king, because he highly doubted that his uncle and Cindy had been hiding sophisticated attire like that in their closets at the apartment when they had nowhere to wear them. It wasn’t like Cindy spent every weekend in shimmering yellow ballgowns, either unaware of or ignoring the way half the retainers in the vicinity were staring at her. None of them bothered attempting to get her attention, though, not when Nyx was busy making conversation with Uncle Cid not two feet away. It was one thing at the garage, where he was nothing more than an employee at the diner and therefore not much of a threat if anyone felt like sidling in and asking Cindy out. Here, however, no one was dumb enough to step up when the captain of the Kingsglaive was in close proximity. Somehow, based on the gleam in her eyes and slight smile on her lips, Noctis figured she wasn’t regretting that too much.

Not far from them, Iris Amicitia was attending dutifully at Clarus’s side while he spoke with Cor, her expression attentive but her eyes unspeakably _bored_. That brought Noctis back to earth enough to grin in amusement: while Iris and Gladio were exact opposites in nearly everything he could possibly imagine, they shared a fondness for action that Noctis thought was equal parts entertaining and frightening. It had to be torture for her, getting all dressed up so she could listen to a bunch of adults talk about things she didn’t care about whatsoever. On the few occasions that Gladio had let her tag along on their ventures into the Crown City or even sit at the sidelines while they trained, Noctis had learned more than enough about her to realize that this wasn’t really her style.

Still, she put up a good show, and Noctis had to be grateful for it. As the sun sank beneath the distant horizon and ushered evening into the room, there was no denying how breathtaking the ambiance was despite the apprehension he’d been fighting all day. It was simple yet elegant, small yet inclusive. No, it wasn’t pizza with the guys in his room—it wasn’t even the next best thing. However, it _was_ the closest he could get, which was fine by him.

And at the center of it all, breaking off a conversation with Luna and the First Secretary of Accordo, was the man responsible for every bit of it.

King Regis had become so adept at using his cane that Noctis barely even noticed his limp anymore. If anything, he could have been floating on a cloud for how elated he seemed at their arrival. There was a smile on his face, the same one he usually wore when Noctis entered a room, yet there was a tenderness in his gaze that he usually tried to hide the moment he realized Noctis had seen it. This time, he didn’t. This time, he let it glow until there was no taking it back or any of the implications that came with it. At first, Noctis hadn’t understood what it meant, although it admittedly shouldn’t have been so difficult to figure out. The king could only tell him how proud he was or how impressed he was or how deeply he admired Noctis so often before it finally registered.

Love. It was love. What had brought him into this world, what had forced a parent to give away their only child, what had drawn his friends to him, and what had healed him from some of the deepest wounds he had ever incurred—all of it was love. It watched him through hazel eyes and smiled at him from behind a beard of greying hair. It shimmered in the decorations around them and lit the darkness that was beginning to press in against the windows.

It was everything he’d ever needed, everything he’d ever wanted, and so much more.

It was why Noctis had to blink back the itch in his eyes and murmur as the king approached, “This is amazing.”

Whether King Regis thought he was talking about the ballroom itself or the friends and family that filled it wasn’t important. What _did_ matter was that the set of his shoulders eased, and he released a breath that Noctis could only describe as relieved when he reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

“I confess, I was not certain it would be to your liking. Indeed, I feared it was a touch too…” He trailed off with a frown, searching for a word that Noctis could already guess. After all, he’d come up with more than a few in the last week.

Suddenly, he regretted each of them. King Regis had done nothing but try to make him comfortable here, so why would he put together a party that would have Noctis wanting to hide in his room? Why would the king ignore everything he had learned about him just to throw the kind of affair that he would sooner avoid?

He wouldn’t, and that made all the difference.

King Regis had delivered on every one of his promises: he had worked tirelessly to turn the Citadel into a home for Noctis like he had said he wanted to the day they met. Hammerhead would always be where he grew up, would always be _home_ in the most basic sense. When he thought of his apartment, however, and the palace that surrounded it? Noctis would be lying if he said that he wasn’t as happy here as he had been in the tiny bedroom he’d inhabited for longer than he could remember. The throne room was home now. The council chambers were home. The kitchen and his friends’ quarters and the training grounds were home.  

This ballroom was home, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be. There was no one else he would rather be, and in that instant, there was no other _father_ he would rather have.

“It’s perfect,” Noctis reassured him. Nerves forgotten, he placed his own hand over the king’s and nearly whispered, “Thank you…Dad.”

For as long as he lived, he would never forget the way a moment passed in breathless anticipation or the tears that filled King Regis’s—his _father’s_ —eyes immediately after. He would never forget the slight tremble in his fingers when he shakily replied, “You’re welcome, my son,” before pulling him into a one-armed embrace.

He would never forget the sense of belonging that threatened to overwhelm him where he was seated at a table with his father on one side and his friends on the other or the feeling of Luna’s hand in his when she appeared over his shoulder to ask for a dance. He wouldn’t forget stepping on her toes or her melodious laugh, her whispered congratulations or the chunk of chocolate cake she smooshed into the side of his face when he got cocky enough to poke fun at the bit of frosting on her lip.

He wouldn’t forget Prompto snapping pictures all night or Gladio joking that they’d need a day of training to burn off all the food or Ignis telling him that he had cleared his schedule so that he could stay out as late as he wanted. He wouldn’t forget the fact that they were awake all night once the party came to a close, playing video games and trading barbs and doing the things brothers were supposed to do until the sun came up the next morning.

Noctis would forever hold those memories close to his heart and the pages of the notebook that contained the treasures that mattered more than any other. And as he basked in the glow of the best birthday gift he could ever receive, he realized that he didn’t need to wonder whether the frog prince really did get to live happily ever after anymore. Here, surrounded by everyone he loved, he thought he already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~The End~
> 
> Well, here we are. It's so surreal to finally come to the end after all these months and a lot more words than I ever thought I would write in a single story. I'm sad to see this universe go, but I'm also staggered by the incredible and overwhelming support you guys have offered all this time. First of all, I'd like to thank [roguehearted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roguehearted/pseuds/roguehearted), who boosted me when I was lacking confidence and brought me back down to earth when I was getting a bit too anxious. She's been there to support me as only a friend can and see me tear my hair out worrying about whether each update was good enough, and that means more than words can say. Second of all, thank you to everyone who left feedback! I know I've said it before, but I love hearing what you think and using any constructive criticism to hopefully help me become a better writer over time. And lastly, thank you to everyone who took the time to read at all, whether you've been here from the beginning, wandered in along the way, or are reading this weeks or even months from now. It's important to write for yourself, but it is also so uplifting and rewarding to know that others enjoy it too. 
> 
> I'm going to be taking the next couple of Saturdays off while I focus on planning out my next fic and updating Royal Protocol, and then you can expect a new story! This one is a fix-it fic that has been in the works for about a year; it was originally inspired by a popular fan-theory, but as time has passed, it's become something altogether different. After that, it's back to the AU realm for another fairy tale AU! I hope you guys will join me again for those stories and the others I have planned! (I can neither confirm nor deny that I have a fairly extensive list...)
> 
> Thank you so much once again! Until next time, walk tall. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> For more on my writing and Final Fantasy XV, check out my Tumblr: theasset6.tumblr.com


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